


As You Wish

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Slavery, completely unnecessary self inflicted suffering, humans being humans -- you'll see what i mean, loki's pride is his bane, see end notes for spoilery tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 00:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13752294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Your everyday "Loki is punished for NY with slavery to the Avengers and forced to obey every order" fic but with the Avengers being Very Human instead of saints.





	As You Wish

**Author's Note:**

> Started as a fic ages ago, got abandoned until [this kinkmeme prompt](http://frostironkink.tumblr.com/post/170942216639/prompt-i-would-love-to-read-a-slaveloki-fic) happened across my dashboard. I tried my very best to fill the prompt but I don't think this is quite what OP wanted. Sorry?
> 
> Se end notes for full list of warning tags.

The trial was shorter than it would have been if they had allowed Loki to talk.

But Asgard knew better, by now, than to allow him use of his silver tongue, so Loki couldn't explain himself, or his plan. His brilliant, brilliant plan to use Midgard and their technology to bring down Thanos, after what he had done to Loki.

He was forced to remain silent as he heard them judge him on his intentions, even when they couldn't even fathom them, or the true reach of his plan. Forced to endure the jeers of people who had once respected him, though never liked him. Forced to his knees in front of Odin and Thor, watched by the whole of Asgard, and he had never felt more humiliated, not even when Thanos had taunted him before the whole of his borrowed army for crying out during torture.

Loki had, at first, thought they were going to restrain his powers. He had planned for it, and taken action accordingly to ensure he would not be completely helpless should the Chitauri, however many remained, came for him.

He had never, for one second, even considered the notion that he would be forced to make amends to those he had wronged by being at their beck and call.

Thor was the one to tell him. "Brother! I come bearing news of you punishment. It has been decided that you will be in their service until you learn your lesson, like I was!" he exclaimed (for Thor never did simply "say", he always, _always,_ "exclaimed"), smiling like the idiot he was, like this punishment was actually more lenient that cutting Loki off from Yggdrasil and throwing him into a remote cave for an eon.

Loki had many things he wanted to say. _'You're not my brother,'_ for one; ' _will my powers be sealed, like yours were?'_ more pressingly. But his lips were still bound by the metal contraption they had placed upon him on Midgard, so he couldn't ask. Instead, he refused to look at Thor, or even give any sign that his presence was felt at all.

"You will be asked to promise to obey them," Thor continued happily on, uncaring of Loki's opinions, like always. "Father has decided your magic will not be bound."

Of course not. Odin was selling Loki's labour to pay reparations – what kind of payment would a common slave be? Better to gift them the most powerful sorcerer Asgard had ever seen to do their bidding. Loki sneered under the mask, thinking, ' _And Thor thinks Odin is doing me a favour... Really, Thor? How stupid can you really be?'_

Loki raised his eyes at Thor, who was beaming, and glared daggers at him. He would prefer to be stripped of his magic and immortality and left stranded on Midgard to find his way alone. _That_ he could do with his hands tied behind his back; he had always been persuasive.

But Odin was wily, and this was not only reparations, but punishment. Loki would regain his powers in a little while, or at least have a comfortable life until he died. By giving Loki a task, a lesson to learn—and Loki could imagine just which lesson: _you are not their better just by virtue of being a god_ —and seemingly expecting him back, he was getting rid of Loki for good.

Because that wasn't a lesson Loki could learn, and they both knew that.

* * *

Thor took Loki, chained and muzzled, down to Midgard via the Tesseract.

They hadn't fed him or let him wash or even change his clothes, and his wounds had not been treated. It had, after all, only been a week in Asgard, and Aesir couldn't call themselves such if they couldn't go a week without basic commodities.

Still, Loki was sure he didn't make a pretty sight for the mortals; in fact, he was pretty sure he looked quite like a deranged animal, his body tense, his eyes wild, captured and dragged places against his will. He would have laughed, had he been able to. ' _What a prize I am at this moment,_ ' he thought sarcastically, amused. ' _Look at the valuable gift Odin gives you for your troubles. Feeling insulted yet?_ '

Apparently, yes.

"Uh, when Fury said 'reparations' I envisioned more the piles-of-gold kind. Powerful relics and +10 HP armour would have been nice too." Stark sounded more than a little disappointed. "Instead we get smelly road kill. Can we get a refund?" The others nodded their agreement.

Loki could tell he meant it. He had no right to feel insulted about being rejected, even less considering how used he was to it, and yet...

Thor laughed light-heartedly, apparently thinking Stark's words a joke. "You are funny, Man of Iron," Thor boomed, slapping him heartily in the back and almost sending him tumbling forward. Loki saw the man flinch at the epithet and resolved to use it whenever he could. "But Loki is quite powerful indeed, and he had promised to serve you all until he makes amends for the wrongs he has brought upon you and yours."

Oh, Loki had _promised_ , had he?

But he refrained from showing his scepticism. Barton was glaring fixedly at him, and Loki didn't want to give him ideas. "How do we know he'll keep his promise, then?" he asked coldly, gaze not straying from Loki.

Thor frowned, not understanding the question. Loki knew it was because he couldn't comprehend even the mere hypothetical of someone not keeping a promise. It simply didn't happen on Asgard.

"I do not understand you question," he said slowly, at last, still looking stupidly confused.

"He's a liar, Thor," added the beast helpfully. "No, he's _the_ liar. How can we make sure he won't go back on his word?"

Interesting. So humans weren't bound to their promises, if they could entertain he idea of breaking them with impunity. Good thing to keep in mind. Barton was still glaring — Loki winked at him.

"Yeah, Goldilocks, buddy," Stark started, grabbing Thor's shoulder in a mockery of the intimacy between a mentor and his student, "hate to be the one to break it to you, but Reindeer Games over there? Doesn't quite scream 'trustworthy' to me. Or anyone, really."

Thor shook his head. "My brother had never broken a promise in his entire life. Promises are given when they are a sure thing. To give your word means that it is as good as done," he tried to explain, but Loki knew it was to no avail. The humans, unbound by their word or by destiny, would not comprehend what it meant to Thor's people.

"Yeah, okay, let's go with that," Stark shrugged. "Hypothetically, and by that I mean 'just pretend for a second', if Loki were to, um, _not fulfil_ his promise, for whatever reason," he raised his voice and made a 'halt' motion with his hand, cutting Thor off, "just pretend with me here... What would happen?"

Loki would die.

"He will become a mortal, and be taken off the reincarnation cycle," Thor answered, sullen.

Same thing. Loki would cease to exist as he was. He would lose his magic, his access to Asgard, his immortality, everything that made him _Loki_.

And _now_ they seemed to like the prospect. Loki could see the woman smiling nastily, and the archer's eyes glinted with barely repressed anticipation.

"I don't like this," spoke Rogers. Like anyone has asked for _his_ opinion. "America abolished slavery—"

He was cut off by Stark's hand on his mouth. "Yeah, but _they_ didn't, and that's what counts, right? Wouldn't want to seem _judgemental_ of another culture. That's so 1990s." Then he turned to Thor, ignoring Loki. "Sure, we'll take him. Anyone who disagrees—except you, Capsicle—raise their hand."

Loki waited a few heartbeats, and mock-hesitantly raised his hand. No one else did.

Stark huffed out a laugh through his nose. "You don't count, Nat Turner," he commented, but he was smiling, if only just a little bit. "Okay, so we keep Loki. Anything we need to know? Or does he come with a Care and Feeding of Your Pet God manual?" He glanced at Loki, his eyes dancing with mirth.

And Loki knew that if he was to conquer the Avengers, he needed to start with him. The others were impenetrable, but Stark already liked him, or at least didn't outright hate him. He could get to the others through him.

Thor rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "There is not much you need to know. Only, make sure to specify your requests very carefully," he looked abashed, and Loki grinned behind his muzzle.

Banner snorted, and then seemed to recoil into himself, as if afraid of being the centre of attention. "Be careful what you wish for, then?" he asked hesitantly.

Stark grinned at him.

"Indeed," Thor said quite vehemently. "Also, I trust you will treat him well."

Barton and Romanov smirked wickedly, but they didn't intimidate Loki. He was more interested in what Stark had to say – it was _his_ tower he would be serving in, after all.

The man merely waved his hand dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, sure. Promise to take care of him and feed him and clothe him and bathe him and everything. Cross my heart and hope to die, et cetera, et cetera." He looked around and saw the disapproving glances everywhere. He rolled his eyes. "Come on, guys," he whined exaggeratedly.

The team gave their reluctant and half-hearted assent.

Good enough for Thor, apparently. The oaf's smile showed off his every tooth. "Most excellent, my friends! Then I shall remove the muzzle." He did.

Having his jaw free was a strange sensation, after having worn the muzzle so long without a break, so he moved it to stretch cramped his muscles. When he didn't say anything, Thor elbowed him in the side.

"Go ahead, Brother," he whispered, though since it was Thor doing the whispering, he might as well have shouted.

"Not your brother," Loki whispered right back. Barton snickered, Stark smirked, and Loki rolled his eyes at them all. He cleared his throat, using the time to prepare himself mentally. "I give my word to serve you, Anthony Edward Stark, Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanov, and follow your every order to the letter unless it conflicts with a previous order," he had to add that or serving six people equally would be a nightmare, "until the times come when I learn my place—"

Thor elbowed him again, giving him a Look.

Loki sneered at him. "Fine. Until the time comes when I learn Odin's intended lesson for me, whichever it may be." The promise settled like a mantle of lead over his shoulders, stifling him. Suddenly tired and wanting to get this day over with, he snapped at Thor. "Satisfied?"

"Very," the idiot answered, and took off the magic-restraining manacles from Loki's wrists.

Stark started clapping, as if it had been a pantomime the Asgardians had put on especially for him. Loki ignored him, lost as he was in the overwhelming feeling of connecting to Yggdrasil once again, of being whole once again.

Loki remained still, acclimating himself to the freedom of magic and the haze of his new thraldom, while Thor said his farewells and left, leaving Loki in the lions' den.

Rogers hand closed around his shoulder like a vice grip, and Loki, startled, stared at it warily. Now that Thor wasn't watching, would they give in to the desires Loki could see reflected in their eyes and punish him.

"Come on, make us some dinner," was what the man said, his voice deceptively amiable.

* * *

 

He cooked to the best of his ability.

Now, it should be noted that the only things Loki had cooked before, being a prince and thus waited on, were potions or wild game over an open fire during travels or long hunts. It also didn't help that he was under the very strict supervision of five Avengers, none of which were inclined to help.

It was inevitable that he should mess up, really. Loki thought that, as a ploy to humiliate him and degrade him, it was a good one. Give Loki all he needed to prepare a meal worthy of gods and watch as he crashed and burned like the pathetic screw up he was.

The food he had cooked, simple steak and salad, looked perfectly done (his skill in potion making had come in handy for dicing vegetables, at least), so he served them it.

The Avengers—ugh, such a stupid name!—looked at each other and decided to draw lots. Barton was picked as the unlucky soul to try first – and no sooner had he taken a bite than he coughed and sputtered and turned purple.

"Loki," he growled once he was finished gagging, "you _asshole_! You tried to poison us!" he accused loudly, pointing his finger and everything.

Romanov went for her knife before Loki could finish widening his eyes in surprise, and when he raised his hands in a placating gesture, she was alarmed enough to throw the knife at him. It buried itself into his shoulder, making him gasp at the sudden pain.

So _this_ was how they 'took care of him', then? So much for promising – their resolve had not lasted even two hours.

"If you will allow me to explain..." he started, but Barton interrupted him.

"SHUT UP!"

 _Who_ did that mere mortal think he was to demand silence from him? "Listen here," Loki spat, "you puny bird—" He clamped his mouth shut almost immediately.

Oh, the _pain_. It built up quickly right in the middle of his forehead, where his Third Eye resided, and shot across his skull and down his spine. It was brief, thankfully, ceasing the second the geas registered his intention to comply, so he managed to remain standing, but _ouch_. He barely even heard the man continue to berate him, concentrating on breathing and maintaining an impassive face instead. So this was what broken promises tasted like? He would never do it again. Ever.

"... And that's _Master_ puny bird to you!" Barton was saying when Loki could pay attention again. "In fact, just 'Master' will do. From now on, you will address me—no, _all of us_ as your masters." He grinned triumphantly.

Loki glared at him with all the hate he could muster. Orders upon orders upon orders. Humiliation burned in his chest, or maybe it was the quick flutter of his heart as he fought his impulse to backhand the man, or, as he grabbed and pulled out the knife in his shoulder, to bury it deep into Barton's prized eyes.

He closed his eyes, concentrating on centring himself, trying to push down his emotions. He received a slap for his efforts.

"You will _not_ dismiss me, Dog," Barton growled.

Loki sneered at him regally with the you-are-beneath-me-peasant look he had perfected over millennia, and Barton lost it. He launched himself at Loki, looking ready to pummel him into the floor, but Captain Rogers held him back.

"Clint," he muttered warningly, his hands clamping down on Barton's shoulders, "get a hold on yourself. Can't you see he's doing it on purpose?"

Loki smirked as he saw Barton look down, Banner shaking his head tiredly in the background, but his smugness lasted only a second: Barton suddenly looked a lot calmer and a lot more calculating.

"Well, Dog," the man drawled, "we _did_ promise Thor we would feed you, didn't we?" Loki was overcome by a sudden sense of dread.

Stark had seemingly caught on, for he smiled genially and put a hand on the small of Loki's back, guiding him to the seat Barton had vacated in his outrage. "Indeed! Come, sit," he said, and his voice was almost pleasant, "enjoy your meal."

Fearing repercussions of the magical variety, Loki sat, looking at the seemingly perfect dish with trepidation. He grabbed fork and knife, cut off a piece of meat—the Avengers watching his every move with smiles of varying anticipation—and put it in his mouth.

Instantly he wanted to gag, but managed to hold the reflex at bay through sheer control of his body, achieved over millennia of living in it. It was sweet. He chewed, face impassive. He thought back furiously, ignoring the revolting taste. The white powder he had taken to be salt must have been some kind of sweetener he was unfamiliar with; he had had no way of knowing he was messing up.

He swallowed. The only reaction he allowed himself was a wrinkle of his nose, before he cut off another piece and repeated the action. If one ignored the sweetness, the meat was tender and evenly cooked, red in the middle, just the way he liked it. The Avengers were looking on eagerly, waiting for him to gag – he wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

He could have shape-shifted his tongue not to taste the sweetness, but that would be cheating. Ah, who was he kidding...? As soon as the idea crossed his mind, he made it reality, and, as he gathered momentum from his week-long unsatisfied hunger, he started making sounds of pleasure, closing his eyes as he chewed slowly, savouring the steak.

He was truly making a show of _enjoying his meal_ , as Stark had ordered. ' _Careful what you ask for,_ ' he thought, briefly catching the eye of the man in question, before returning to his meal. The salad was even better, for the vegetables and the tomato tasted great without salt, unlike the meat. He outright moaned.

"Raise your hand if you find that disturbingly arousing," Stark said loudly, raising his hand.

"Does finding it just disturbing count?" wondered Banner, also raising his own hand.

Laughing, Stark slapped it, producing a sharp noise that startled Loki. Was that some Midgardian form of indicating agreement? Bah, he didn't care about the rituals of mortals, not when he had a meal for five humans and a hunger that felt like he had a black hole in his stomach.

The mortals lost interest when Loki got started on the second slab of meat and started a debate on something called 'pit-sah', which Loki took advantage of to spell the meat warm again and put some salt on it. Once he was sure no-one was looking at him, the mortals too busy looking at the slab of glass with moving pictures or yelling into black rectangles pressed to the side of their faces, he truly gave into his hunger and polished off the food, completely forgoing manners and just shoving it into his mouth with his hands.

He was done in under two minutes, and he was still craving more. He glanced longingly at the cold cupboard the mortals used to store their food.

"I'll take your appetite into account for future grocery purchases," a voice said from behind him.

Loki froze, suddenly conscious of his grease-stained fingers and the lines of meat juice running down from his mouth to his chin, from where he had bitten into the meat and torn off chunks of it. He snatched a napkin and swiped it quickly across his face and fingers, before turning around.

No one was there. ' _What?_ ' He wanted to ask who was there, but then he recalled the order not to speak. The confusion must have shown on his face, though.

"I am Jarvis, Mr Stark's assistant," the entity presented himself.

Loki wanted to ask where Jarvis was and whether he was invisible, but he still couldn't speak. So he flicked his wrist and his magic heated portions of the air in front of him into glowing plasma. ' _Where are you?'_ the fire read, before Loki closed his fist and it vanished.

"Nowhere and everywhere," the Jarvis answered in an emotionless voice, yet Loki could still tell he was amused.

Far from being stupid, Loki understood that for what it was. It helped that he had seen the same phenomenon before: ghosts, bodiless entities that haunted a castle or were trapped in a sorcerer's household, doing chores, keeping intruders at bay and generally looking after the place. Spying on the guests, too. ' _Guess some things are universal,_ ' Loki thought ruefully.

It was always wise to put oneself in such entities' good books.

Loki nodded. ' _I see. Pleased to meet you, Jarvis,_ ' he wrote in mid-air. ' _Yes, indeed, my appetite is legendary, but Stark—_ ' Pain flashed in his head and he remembered. He waved a hand with a self-deprecating smile. The 'Stark' moved, leaving a gap, and the word 'Master' bloomed into existence there. ' _—Master Stark seems wealthy enough to accommodate me with ease. I apologise for my lack of good manners; I had no idea anyone was watching.'_

"It's quite alright," Jarvis answered coolly, "I am unable to feel disgust."

Loki gleaned that he was just being polite while reprimanding him at the same time. ' _Can you tell me what the white powder I used was?_ ' he wrote.

"It's called sugar," Jarvis explained, "it's a carbohydrate extracted from sugarcane or sugar beet and refined in factories, used to sweeten and preserve foods like drinks and desserts. Its use began as far back as the eight century before the common era—"

' _That is quite enough,'_ Loki wrote, smiling tightly. Apparently the being was not only a common household spirit, but also a repository of knowledge. Interesting. Loki tapped his chin, considering. ' _So you will answer any question of mine?'_

"Within reason. I don't have orders against it, if that is what you are asking."

Most excellent. He could use this to his advantage.

' _Then I will ask of you to show me some basic recipes._ ' His _masters_ would not humiliate him again.

Loki spent what was left of the day looking around and learning how to use mortal machines under the watchful—and sometimes amused—gaze of the Avengers. They seemed to have tacitly agreed to have him watched at all times, and Loki made an extra effort to look as mysterious and mischievous as possible when he had no idea what the machines did.

Stark and Barton found it hilarious. They even went as far as to make themselves some kind of snack—white, fluffy-looking kernels—to munch on as they pointed and laughed at him. Loki rolled his eyes, trying not to let it bother him. Why shouldn't he be completely ignorant of human science and technology?

At some point, his stomach rebelled on him. Maybe it was the amount eaten after going so long without, or maybe it was the unfamiliar spice, but he found himself stealing into a bathroom and heaving into it.

Coming up, it tasted even more revolting than the first time around, because he had forgotten to redo the spell not to taste. He ended up emptying his stomach, unable to cease gagging and spitting. It made his still sore ribs burn painfully and jarred the open wound on his shoulder, from Barton's knife.

Hm. Maybe he should take care for that. Certainly no one else was going to, despite what Stark had promised the Odinson.

He washed his mouth with water from the sink and focused, gathering his magic to the wound. It sterilised the surface and closed the skin over the cut, not really healing it. Once infection was not a risk, he would let it heal on its own. It shouldn't take more than three or four days – his boned, shattered by the green beast, had healed enough for him to move without debilitating pain in the last week.

Since he was there, he also took the time to groom himself, running his hands through his dishevelled, greasy hair and washing his visible skin. He also repaired the holes and torn stitches in his clothes. He hadn't realised he had looked to bad...

When he eventually came out, the place was deserted.

Jarvis told him the Avengers had gone to their respective homes within the tower, leaving Loki alone on the common floor.

It suited him just fine.

He was quite tired himself. As no one had mentioned anything about rooms for him, he took it to mean they didn't care one way or the other where he slept, or if indeed he did at all, so he laid down on the couch.

It faced the windows overlooking the city, but from his angle he could only see the sky. The city was so bright, even at night, that the air above it refracted the artificial lights, not letting him see the stars.

Excellent. He cared very little for the sights of the Universe.

' _Jarvis_ ,' he spelled in floating, fiery letters after he had curled up on the sofa, trying to negotiate the small space with his long, unwieldy limbs, ' _please wake me at dawn, or when any of the Avengers wake._ ' He curled up tighter, sleep bringing cold with it.

"Will do, Loki."

* * *

The next days, Loki and the Avengers settled into something of a routine.

Loki would wake up at dawn, cook a simple breakfast for the Avengers and an extravagant one for himself, which he always ate in privacy. He took this opportunity to practise and learn new recipes, though he soon learnt it wasn't enough: what tasted like the mythical food from the halls of Valhalla to him very often did not agree with the humans, sending them into fits of rage or vomiting, and sometimes both.

After breakfast was done, he would be escorted around the building by one human to make beds, gather dirty laundry, pick up after the residents and generally tidying up. Barton would generally make a mess on purpose as Loki was cleaning the place when it was his turn, but that was rarely, for Barton, Romanov and Rogers enjoyed training in the morning. Since Stark liked to sleep in late when he wasn't pulling all-nighters, generally it was Banner that accompanied Loki, which both annoyed him and unnerved him.

This took long enough that he would need to start preparing lunch as soon as he fished. Jarvis was incredibly useful at this point, telling him what ingredients were stocked and how many people would be eating, as well as directing him through the process of cooking. It still was a fiasco, for Loki had not yet grasped human taste well and often ended up being forced to eat everything.

Most times it made him vomit again, so he ended up learning to cook passably out of self-preservation and becoming intimately acquainted with the toilets all over the building.

After lunch, he would do laundry—sometimes naked, for he had to launder his own clothes too, as the Avengers had never given him any—and clean the kitchen and common room. Bathrooms started smelling about two days in, and he was told to clean them too, which he found extremely distasteful and did with magic. It was worth the waste. On the bright side, he was thus able to wash his whole body and hair every day with hot water, instead of once a week like he used to in Asgard. His hair had never been so soft and shiny in his life. The hot water was very nice on his sore muscles, too.

By afternoon, most of the Avengers were out and about or, like Stark and Banner, were secluded in their preferred room. Loki often got dumped on those two, and he spent his time in silence, reading from a tablet Stark had given him after he annoyed him too much with questions (' _Success._ ') or passing them instruments when they asked for something out loud and forgot Loki was compelled to obey even the most unimportant orders.

Sometimes he napped on the cot in the corner, shrouding himself in a perception filter, making him all but non-existent to the humans.

Then, later in the afternoon, Jarvis would remind him it was time to cook dinner and he left for the kitchen, to be minded by Rogers in the meantime. As the days progressed and he grew more and more skilled with making food, the fare changed from simple—meat roasted in the over with mashed potatoes and Yamani rice salad for Banner—to more and more complicated, sometimes requiring up to ten steps.

Once, Rogers expressed his approval and commented that he enjoyed watching Loki cooking. Loki sneered at him in response and told him he should watch him doing virgin-sacrifice ritual magic if he wanted complicated, to which Rogers turned green.

But, in truth, Loki enjoyed cooking. It was the only time of the day when he was free from the pressure of obeying orders, for by this point no-one knew more about cooking than Loki. What he really liked about it, though, was watching the humans under his care enjoy the food. They even went so far as to praise him, when back in Asgard he would have mocked for excelling at yet another womanly act, and they wore their delight plain on their faces when they genuinely liked what Loki prepared.

Then he would clean up and watch from afar as they enjoyed each other's company, full with good-natured ribbing and laughter. It happened every night: Loki served them cold drinks—it had been a hot summer and it was still a warm autumn, after all—and they only paid him enough attention to order another before returning to their games or TV shows, otherwise ignoring him.

He would simply go to the kitchen and chat with Jarvis, sometimes play checkers with him. Jervis was his equal, as much as it galled him: a sentient being, enslaved to serve those beneath him, compelled to obey their every order. A kindred spirit.

Some days, when there weren't many Avengers in residence, the remaining one or two would take pity on Loki and try to include him, if they were Banner or Rogers—it was overall extremely awkward and painful for all involved—or take advantage of his idle hands and order him to rub their backs or feet, like Barton—he, especially, liked sticking his smelly feet under Loki's nose and laugh when he recoiled—or ever their scalp, like Stark. So he was forced into close quarters with them if he didn't hide fast enough...

When the Avengers left his domain—common room, kitchen, dining room, etc.—Loki would collect the empty snack bowls or glasses or whatever and clean up. Then he would go to sleep, sometimes on the sofa, sometimes on an empty bed in one of the guestrooms. He made a point not to sleep where they could see him, dreading the thought of any of them, particularly the warrior hawk with a grudge, finding him in a vulnerable position again.

The last time it happened it had not been pleasant.

Barton found him, one night. Jarvis for some reason didn't warn Loki—maybe Barton had told him not to—and the mortal surprised Loki with his guard down.

Loki woke up in a chokehold.

He fought back, or course, twisting uncomfortably and punching what he could reach behind his head. He was about to summon his knives when Barton hissed in his ear, "Don't fight back."

He stopped instantly, though not quite going limp, his heart racing. He was Barton's mercy, utterly and completely; he had never been more scared, especially when the man grabbed him by the hair and held a sharp knife to his throat.

"Also, don't even think about calling for help, _Loki_ ," Loki's old thrall warned.

The pain was blinding and instant. Have you ever tried not thinking about something when someone says not to? It was automatic. But Loki had centuries of practice directing his thoughts—what mage worth his salt couldn't?—so he managed to clear his head, and the pain went the way of the thoughts. It wasn't as if he could have called for help, anyway. Not with Barton's previous order to shut up.

Loki nodded stiffly, communicating he had received and understood the order.

"Good boy," Barton said patronisingly, pulling on his hair to bend his head back sharply. He whispered, "Now stay there," before letting go and circling the couch Loki was sitting on.

Loki remained where he was and in the same position, not wanting to leave what "there" meant to chance, but his eyes tracked Barton's movements, watching him warily.

The mortal sat down on the coffee table in front of Loki and played with his knife, regarding Loki with heavy, considering eyes. Then, with no warning, he struck, aiming for Loki's leg.

Reacting reflexively, Loki moved his leg aside so that the knife ended up stabbed to the hilt in the backrest. Barton may have forbidden fighting back, but he had forgotten to add dodging. Loki smirked at him.

But Barton looked triumphant. "So Thor lied about you being unable to disobey. You just fought back."

Oh, perfect. If Loki could have him believing that, then Barton would sleep with one eye open from then on, forever waiting to catch Loki trying to kill him. He averted his gaze, not wanting to deal with Barton one moment longer. Maybe if he ignored him he would go away?

"Nothing to say?" Barton crooned, retrieving the knife and twirling it menacingly, before stabbing down again. He missed as Loki dodged, and his face went red in anger. "Don't dodge, dammit!" he shouted, and struck again with the knife.

Loki saw the movement as though in slow motion. He saw two possible paths: he disobeyed and dodged, and endured the resulting pain from his geas, or he had sat still and got stabbed, and endured the pain from the cut. Also, he was sure, once Barton knew Loki was a sitting duck, he would take complete advantage of that knowledge.

In the end, he needn't have bothered. He sat there so long, thinking, that Barton had all the time in the world to stab him.

At first Loki didn't feel anything, but then Barton pulled out the knife, his face a mask of fury, and stabbed him again in the shoulder and then once more in the stomach. He stopped, suddenly, and watched his handiwork fixedly, almost unseeing, and then stared at the bloody knife in his hand.

Only when Loki saw the blood welling up in his wounds and sliding down his body did he start feeling a throbbing in the wounds, but he looked up when Barton dropped the knife with a clatter. He couldn't quite believe the mortal had dared to hurt him like that only one day after promising Thor he would treat Loki well.

"You—you didn't dodge," Barton stuttered stupidly, face paling. "I thought you would."

The wounds started burning, and Loki let out a low hiss.

Barton looked him in the eyes, his own widening in panic, and his hands reached out to push at Loki's wounds. It hurt, quite a lot actually, and he screamed out in pain.

"Shut up!" the mortal barked, looking around nervously. "Don't make noise!"

But Loki was too far gone, and he let out a small, pained moan. His head started hurting immediately, and, added to the pain from the wounds, it was like being eaten alive by bilgesnipes. He shouted again, ending with a muffled whimper when Barton covered his mouth with a bloody hand.

It helped, not being able to express his pain. Soon the geas lifted and he could concentrate on directing his magic to heal himself. He breathed hard through his nose, holding back the whimpers and whines, and forced the bleeding to stop to a trickle.

"You—you really _must_ follow every order, don't you?" Barton marvelled, grinning. He took back his hand back and stared at him warily.

Loki returned it with a glare burning with the fury of a thousand stars.

"Don't tell anyone about this, do you hear?" Barton ordered, grinning.

Loki rolled his eyes but didn't answer him, not wanting to waste his breath on this pitiful mortal who had fallen prey to his anger and hate. Instead, he narrowed his eyes at him defiantly and made himself grin, still working on his wounds. ' _We'll see about that_ ,' he thought.

"Speak up, Loki, tell me you understand." Barton's voice rang slow and clear. Very patronising.

Loki smiled at him sarcastically, minutely glad that he had been given his voice back. "Yes, _Master_ , I understand. Anything else? Want to burn me to make sure the message sunk in? Order me to drown myself in a glass of water?"

Barton kneed him in the face, and Loki felt his nose crunch under his fist.

Ouch.

"Fuck you," the mortal said, patting him on the cheek in a mockery of affection. "Here's another order: don't feed me, or any of us for that matter, any more poisoned crap, 'cause we'll just make you eat it." He grinned, and it was sharp like his knife in the darkness. "In fact, don't do anything that will harm us, or allow harm to come to us. Or I'll feed you to piranhas. Clear?"

Loki didn't know who or what 'Piranhas' was, but he didn't, for once second, doubt the mortal's ability to make his promise a reality, so he nodded slowly exactly once. ' _You win this round._ '

Barton feinted at Loki with the knife, making him recoil warily, and smirked cockily, before leaving.

Loki kept his eyes on the mortal, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw him cross the threshold. He was about to move, but then recalled the order not to, and didn't know what to do.

"Oh, yeah, almost forgot," came Barton's voice from the doorway, and Loki tensed. The man poked his head in and regarded him with amusement. "You can move now, slave. Go lick your wounds if you want, but get your filthy blood off that couch by tomorrow."

Then he disappeared again, and Loki knew he would have been skipping and whistling if it weren't the middle of the night.

Snarling, he got up gingerly and limped to the kitchen, feeling very thirsty. He gulped down two glasses of water before stopping for breath, swearing vengeance of Barton and his family and friends.

It would have to wait until he was free again, he knew as he sat down cross-legged on the kitchen floor and healed himself totally, even the cut from Romanov's knife in his shoulder and his broken nose. He didn't want any disadvantage the next day, or he may not survive his stint as a thrall. He grabbed a wet rag and went back to the living room to clean up, consoling himself with the thought that, even if he wasn't allowed to kill them, he could still make their lives miserable.

Loki had been reduced to passive-aggressive tactics before, and he smiled, imagining putting pepper in their sheets when he made their beds... Oh yes. Let them be lulled into a false sense of security for now. Loki would own them all sooner or later.

Everything else ran smoothly. He had food, hot showers, comfy enough places to sleep... He tried to make himself as scarce as possible, relying on Jarvis—whom he was getting to like more and more, and he could tell the sentiment was mutual—to warn him when any human was approaching, and so far it was working. The Avengers seemed to forget he was there, sometimes, except for Barton who always kept his gaze steady on him and played with his knife when he caught Loki watching.

* * *

The status quo lasted until about two weeks after Loki got dragged down in chains.

Stark said he was going out to a party and Loki promptly forgot about it until Stark got home after the outing and wanted to use the couch Loki was sleeping in to bed with his conquest for the night, without checking beforehand if it was in use.

Loki's surprised yelp as they landed on him must have severely ruined the mood, for the girl left awkwardly, muttering nonsense about 'jealous boyfriends lying in wait to catch you in the act'. Stark launched into a seemingly unending tirade, while Loki nodded and hummed, pretending to be listening attentively, before fishing with, "And keep your filthy paws off my furniture from now on, unless it's to clean it!", and then went down to his lab to let out some steam.

Shit.

Since it was Stark Tower Loki was residing in, the order effectively rendered it impossible for Loki even sit on a chair, let alone use the couch or the odd bed to sleep in.

Loki thanked Stark for the inconvenience by short-sheeting his bed every night for a week and serving him decaffeinated coffee—which apparently was akin to blasphemy, according to Jarvis—for breakfast when the man caught on and ordered him to make the bed well.

Let it never be said that Loki wasn't resourceful when it came to vengeance. Barton would know exactly how much as soon as he relaxed his guard around Loki.

He stopped not because Stark on caffeine withdrawal was unbearable—he was, he made Loki _juggle mugs_ and hit him over the head with his tablet if he dropped one—but because. Over the days, he discovered he could still use cushions and blankets. Stark hadn't actually _ordered_ him to sleep on the floor like a dog, so at night Loki stole the cushions from the sofa to sleep on. He really didn't want to be stumbled upon yet again, so he took himself to the only place in the whole tower he could call his own, for no one ever entered: the laundry room.

One memorable night, when it happened simultaneously that Stark came back from a business trip and Widow and Hawkeye from a mission, Loki slept quite well in the resulting dirty laundry pile, even though it had smelled strongly of sweat, spilled seed and blood. It had been so comfortable in comparison to sleeping on the floor that he took to sleeping curled up in dirty towels and bedding. He always woke up stiff, though, but that had also been the norm when he had still been allowed to sleep on the tiny couch.

He consoled himself thinking that at least he still had all the food he could stomach and as many hot showers as his skin could stand.

* * *

Loki was not a lucky man. He had never been, ever since he had been born, and it certainly hadn't improved over the years. Or rather, he _was_ lucky, but he only attracted bad luck.

After about a month of stellar behaviour on Loki's part—unless one counted the pranks on Stark—the Avengers trusted him on his own around the house, satisfied he would not break orders when they weren't looking, which had been Loki's plan from the beginning.

He had used so very little magic where they could see that they had seemingly forgotten he had it, and had stupidly neglected to order him not use it without permission. Their loss.

Loki, having become a little stir-crazy after a month of constant, judgemental company intruding on his alone-time, decided to take a trip out of the tower. They hadn't forbidden it either, so he told Jarvis he was going out and the entity simply asked him to go grocery shopping while he was at it, because the usual company Jarvis ordered from was having some sort of problem about ruptured banks, whatever that was.

He waited until all the Avengers were out and about and tossed himself over the railing of the balcony, turning into a peregrine hawk on the way down.

Oh, how he had missed flying! The freedom, the control, the mindlessness that came with free-falling and pulling up at the last moment... He revelled in it for a while, chasing some pigeons around, laughing internally at their startled faces.

Then he got a good look at the city he had tried to conquer. Much of it was in ruins, his bad, but under that obvious damage was more, less obvious, damage. He had seen the streets before, seen the ugliness of the city, the dirty humans that lived on the streets, the litter on those streets, the smoke that hung in the air like a permanent miasma.

He had seen how perfectly groomed and obviously rich humans walked among the less fortunate, barely seeing them. Seen how incredibly _rude_ mortals were to each other, making noises with their automobile carriages or simply yelling and kicking said carriages when they belonged to someone that offended them.

But now... there was _more_ filth that he could see. Stores were closed, more people looked to be living on the streets than before. People seemed in even poorer moods than he had seen before, shoving at each other and yelling at the slightest provocation, each of them believing himself above the rest of the filth. Glass everywhere was broken, obviously from thrown stones and hot falling debris from a month before, and there were rude signs painted everywhere.

His army had really done a number on this city, and the effect had been far-reaching. He smirked, thinking of his treatment at the hands of the so-called heroes, the supposed paragon of ethics and such drivel. Humans had had this coming. To think he had felt bad for using them in his plans against Thanos...

Loki turned into a mortal—what better disguise than filth to walk among more filth?—and walked among the humans, feeling the masses rub against him, feeling their eyes on him. He hated them, and would have ran, but he still retained a small measure of pride. Though chained, he was still a god; he had seen the birth of worlds and the death of stars, he had survived wars and famines and travelled through the branches of Yggdrasil to every corner of the Universe. He could bring forth fire with a thought and call upon forces these mortals could only imagine in their wildest dreams to do his bidding.

He could have made any of his masters' wishes a reality with a mere flick of his wrist, if only they asked it of him. Instead, they asked for foot rubs and food and not to have to make their own beds or sew on their own fallen buttons.

Loki really was losing his faith in humanity one day at a time. The more he lived among them, the more we was convinced they had only won by sheer luck.

Shaking his head, amused, he stepped into the first store-like place he saw, judging by what he had seen in the TV shows the Avengers watched while he cleaned up. It was a small place, a bit dark—the artificial lighting was cheap and not very bright—and there were only three check outs, though only one was working.

Jarvis had given him a list, so Loki set out to gather everything on it. Mostly food—Jarvis factored in Loki's appetite now, so it was a lot of food—but also cleaning supplies—Loki had broken the wooden sticks of brooms and mops, and then the plastic ones, so Jarvis told him to buy metal ones if he could find any—and personal hygiene items, including tampons, which he had no idea what they were for.

One item caught his eye, though. Chocolate. He had he had heard mortals speak of it, calling it such things as "ambrosia from the gods"—though he had tasted ambrosia, and for all its wonderful properties it tasted just as foul as any potion ever—and "comfort food". He was incredibly curious about it, and he decided to buy some.

The cashier machines emitted a list of items bought, which worried Loki a bit, before he decided that, even if Stark deigned to check the receipt, it was better to ask forgiveness than permission, because that way he would already have eaten the chocolate.

He calculated the total in his head, trying to see which piece of chocolate he could buy with the money left over. The cheapest piece just barely made it, until he remembered what Jarvis had told him about tax... He didn't think the owners of this store would appreciate his haggling.

Maybe he should go to another store with lower prices.

He liked that idea, so he just left the little metal cart half-full in the middle of the place and left. He walked around idly, stopping to listen to people playing music on the streets for a while, watching people.

He recalled he still had dinner to prepare and that he'd better get a move on, so he started actively looking for markets. He found a _super_ market and decided to check it out—the prices were really a lot lower than the previous store. He would be able to afford the chocolate here, after all.

By the time he got to the register, he had picked a moderately sized bar and this time he hadn't forgotten to account for tax. Feeling proud of himself, he stood in line to pay, desperately trying to ignore the crying child behind him. The cashier seemed to be new, for she was taking forever and a day to ring up the single customer before Loki, and she was getting flustered at her inability to work the machine and deal with the visibly annoyed customer chewing her out at the same time.

Loki wanted to kill them both for making him waste his time – only, it wasn't his time, not really. Time he wasted here meant time away from Avenger Tower, away from Barton's glares and Roger's fake pity and Stark's insults and Romanov's trick questions and Banner's potential anger.

He understood the girl a lot more than he wanted to.

He had to wait for her to compose herself, but then she rung up his items without complaint even if her eyes were still rimmed red. She even bagged everything for him professionally, and gifted him with a wobbly smile afterwards. "Um," she started, and then bit her lip, cowering slightly.

Loki rolled his eyes. "What is it, girl?" he said, trying to keep his voice neutral.

"The total is $503.25," she said quietly.

Loki's face fell. Jarvis had only given him five bills of one hundred dollars. He had thought he had calculated everything well, there must have been something he had missed...

"Do—do you want to give something back?" Her voice was almost inaudible, breaking every three words. What about Loki terrified her so?

Give something back? Well, the obvious choice would have been the chocolate... but he really wanted to try it. He could always leave the tampons. He still had no idea what they were for. He fished them out of the bag. "These," he stated, handing them over.

The woman with the crying baby behind him in line snickered, and the cashier blushed bright red. "Um, are you sure, Sir?" she managed to ask, "the missus might be quite angry..." she trailed off, grimacing.

Oh. Well then. He still didn't know what they were for, but if he would inconvenience Romanov, if she would get angry, possibly murderously so... He grinned. "I'm quite sure, thank you," he purred, adding a wink for good measure.

The girl averted her gaze and took them back gingerly, as though expecting them to explode at any moment—what _were_ these cursed things?—and the woman behind Loki whispered, "I wouldn't do that if I were you..."

Loki turned a raised eyebrow at her. "And I would shut sew shut the mouth of that spawn of yours if I were you," he smiled sweetly at her, "lest strangers in the supermarket take offence to my nosiness."

He turned back to the cashier and paid her. He was in a very good mood now, all thanks to the stuttering girl who had informed him of the tampon's worth. On a whim, he fished out the chocolate and handed it to her. "Here, girl, to make up for that uncultured swine from before. Keep your head up next time, don't let them see."

The girl gifted him with a wobbly smile. "N-no, it's yours. You're gonna brave your girlfriend for it..."

Loki returned the smile genuinely and opened the chocolate. He broke off a piece and left the rest for her, before vanishing the bags of purchases into a fold in space walking away, ignoring her bulging eyes.

He put the piece of chocolate in his mouth as he left the store, and instantly regretted giving it away. It melted on his tongue, a swirl of bitter with cream and sugar. Oh. Now he understood why humans worshipped it like a god. ' _I am too soft on these pathetic creatures,_ ' he thought, before remembering he could always sneak some chocolate in the next trip to the supermarket.

Trying to put off returning as long as possible, Loki took the scenic route back to the tower. He became a bird again and flew around, basking in the light of the sunset. On the way, he spotted Stark flying back home in his armour, and swept past him, defecating on his visor just on principle. The hunk of metal stopped mid-air and dropped a few feet.

It would delay Stark long enough for Loki to get back to the building safely, but that only occurred to Loki after he had already done it, as he was cawing out in laughing so hard his wings stuttered as he flew.

When he got back, Jarvis informed him that the Avengers were planning another of their little get-togethers, this time with movies, and to "prepare the junk food". Loki rolled his eyes, put the groceries away and then started putting the 'junk' food in bowls and serving trays for the Avengers to eat during their movie night without making too much of a mess.

Romanov walked into the kitchen, suddenly, looking murderous, and grabbed the receipt before he could reach it.

Oops.

"I was wondering where the tampons I asked Jarvis to get me were," she commented idly, but Loki could hear the suppressed anger behind her tone. "You wouldn't happen to know where they are?"

' _Yes, in the store,_ ' Loki thought, feeling a frisson of triumph. "No idea, _Mistress_ ," he answered, pretending to think carefully. He even added a custom head scratch as he squinted up his eyes thoughtfully. "Nowhere that I can think of."

Loki could see the burning anger in her eyes in her reflection in the metal bowl in his hands, even if the rest of her face remained completely impassive. "Funny, because Jarvis just told me he sent _you_ to buy me some."

Ooh, there was definitely a growl there now! "Oh, that!" he snapped his fingers, pretending to remember all of a sudden. "Well, you see, _o Mistress mine_ , I didn't have enough money. You humans have a complicated tax system, and it went right over the head of this lowly slave of yours." He grinned cutely.

She didn't believe him for a second. "Uh-huh. So then why does it say 'chocolate' here, Loki?"

Busted. Loki affected great irreverence. "Because I bought some, _Mistress._ " The ' _duh_ ' was implied.

"I would like to eat some, then. Where is it now?" she asked, loudly, making a show of looking around for it. and Loki felt the conversation in the living room come to a halt. He could just picture the lot of idiots with their ears perked up, enjoying the show.

Well, he wouldn't give them the satisfaction. "In my stomach," he said flippantly. "Well, at this point, in my duodenum." He shrugged, projecting great indifference. The he added, " _Mistress,_ " with great smugness.

Loki saw the slap coming—

_Don't dodge._

_—_ but didn't dodge in time. She slapped him hard enough to turn his head. His cheek burned.

"Stop wasting good food on yourself, then," she huffed, grabbing the bowl of crisps from his unresponsive hands. She turned to go but stopped to add, "Oh, and Stark says to clean his armour when you are done serving snacks. Some bird shat on it while he was flying." Then she went back into the living room to much congratulations from her peers.

"Yes, _Mistress,_ " Loki hissed between grinding teeth, his good mood evaporated. His hatred for the humans supposedly in charge of him grew into a bonfire, but he quenched it with thoughts of revenge for the humiliation.

Instead of grabbing the fridge and smashing it against her ugly mug, he put an envelope of popcorn into the microwave, following the instructions to the letter, before taking the bowls over to the living area. He kept his face impassive and his eyes focused on his objectives—

 _Keep your head up, don't let them see._ Good advice.

—as he carried the snacks, enduring the jeers about his still sore cheek with grace befitting a prince.

When he was done serving them, he travelled down to the garage where Stark stored his suits of armour, wet rag in hand. Cleaning bird crap was easy when it was still wet, not so much when dry, even when it had been his own.

Also, the room was _filthy_. Loki had standing orders against filthiness, so he rolled his eyes and went to get some cleaning supplies. And rubber gloves, the myriad of cleaning products were terrible for the skin of his hands, drying it out so badly it cracked and bled if he moved to fast.

The cleaning took him the better part of an hour, even with his magic helping out. He was glad for the chance to use it – the amount of magic he had generated in his anger would be dangerously unstable if he didn't let it out in a controlled way soon. Jarvis kept him company, drawing him into an engaging game of blind chess which Loki lost only marginally less miserably than the last one.

When everything was spic-and-span, or as close as it was ever going to be, considering it was Stark's workshop as well, Loki took the elevator back up, starving. The humans were still watching the TV and tossing pop-corn at each other, laughing until they spotted him, and then their faces turned sour.

Unwelcome in the night of revelry, Loki raised his hands placatingly and returned to the kitchen to dine alone. He cooked himself a Shepherd's Pie, which was recipe he enjoyed very much, and waited until it cooled down, taking the time to wash the various pots and utensils he had used.

He served himself a glass of wine and sat down to eat.

He didn't even get to the second bite before the headache of disobeying an order, familiar by now as he had tested his limits exhaustively, set in, and he teleported to the toilet to vomit, knowing the pain would remain until the food was out of his body one way or another.

When he finished coughing up the single bite of what had been his best rendition of this recipe until now and the pain went away, he flushed the toilet, staring despondently at the swirling water.

Romanov, his mind supplied, and he heard her voice like the poisonous whisper of a cursed spirit.

_Stop wasting good food on yourself._

What did that even mean, 'good food'? Only just-cooked food? Leftovers? Any food deemed good enough to consume? By whose standards?

Shaken, he returned to the kitchen, only to find the Avengers had taken his would-be meal and were feasting on it back in the dining room.

He clenched his hands to keep them from shaking. To deny him food as punishment just because he had stolen a paltry amount of money to buy candy he had given away selflessly to someone in need, and then just _eat_ in front of him?

Loki glared at the woman. ' _You will regret this,_ ' he thought at her, his skin tingling with magic that had come to the surface ready to smite whatever had made him so angry.

"Hey, Loki, this tastes amazing!" Captain Rogers praised, to all-around noises of approval.

The enslaved god stared fixedly at him. The man reminded him so much of Thor at that moment, so blindly, unthinkingly cruel. He forced a smile on his face. " _So_ glad you like it, _Master._ " The smile probably looked fake, and the artificial sweetness in his voice surely wasn't helping.

He needed to go before he burned the building down in an uncontrollable fit of magical destruction, so he bowed, conceding defeat, and then turned around, walking to the laundry room to take his anger out on wrinkled shirts.

Still, if he was truthful to himself, he was already looking forward to the time when this order would be lifted. He hated being starved on purpose as punishment.

* * *

About a five or six days after Loki was forbidden from eating, Rogers caught him sleeping in the laundry room.

It seemed the man was set upon doing his own laundry when it came to _nightly emissions_ , which Loki was both grateful for and incredibly amused about. Thanks to his Aesir hearing, Loki usually heard him approaching and could make himself scarce before he entered, but after not eating for a while, he was lethargic and too focused on imagining what food would taste like to pay attention to his surroundings.

As it so happened, he didn't hear Rogers coming or Jarvis' warnings to get up and hide this time, and the man tripped over Loki on his way to the washing machine – probably thinking his sleeping form just a pile of dirty laundry, cocooned as he had been in dirty sheets.

"What are you doing here, Loki?" he asked, startled.

Loki, disgruntled upon having been so violently woken up—a kick to the stomach will do that to you—merely answered, "Sleeping, _Master,_ " patronizingly.

The man stared at him, unimpressed. "I gathered that, yes. I meant, why here of all places? Why on the floor?"

Resigned to Rogers wanting to converse at that moment instead of letting Loki go back to sleep, Loki sat up and stared at Rogers as though he was being stupider than usual. "Because I'm your slave, _Master_ ," he replied, his tone of voice not quite free of mockery, "and apparently slaves sleep on floors. Who knew?"

Rogers seemed sceptical, but accepted Loki's reasoning.

The next day, came home with a dog bed, which he set down by the fridge.

Loki regarded him with well-hidden horror, already guessing what new humiliation was coming his way. ' _And to think I believed you to be the least cruel_ ,' he thought bitterly.

Gesturing at the dog bed, Rogers turned to Loki. "Here," he said, "since you insist on sleeping on the floor like a dog, sleep on this at least."

Barton and Banner, who had been in the kitchen having lunch, overheard and laughed their heads off while Loki took in the tiny mattress with red cheeks, mortified and dreading the next night's sleep. He would have preferred to keep sleeping in used towels and very much out of sight and out of mind, but now one of his masters had deprived him of even that small dignity.

' _Well then._ ' He took a deep breath and told Rogers, "Why, thank you, _Master_! I shall cherish it forever."

He would just have to sleep with one eye open. And if Rogers' clothes suddenly started itching or vanishing without warning, well, it would hardly be Loki's fault, wouldn't it?

The same way it wasn't his fault should Romanov's tampons have a factory defect that made them waterproof, as he was still waiting for her to allow him to eat again.

Sure, he had discovered he could eat scraps left on the mortal's plates or anything they deemed 'trash'—like rotten vegetables and the crust they cut off sandwiches—but it still wasn't nearly enough, and he wouldn't debase himself by licking their dishes clean or rummaging through their garbage. Not yet, at least.

* * *

But then another two weeks went by and Romanov did not retract her order. Indeed, it seemed she had completely forgotten giving it at all, and no one else had noticed Loki's lack of eating in the mean time.

No one human, at least. Jarvis did, of course—Jarvis noticed _everything_ —but there was nothing he could do. He even apologised to Loki for it and came up with the idea of telling Stark, but Loki repeatedly told him he wouldn't beg for food like the _dog_ the Avengers had likened him to.

Sleeping curled up in the cold air of the kitchen with no blanket and right in the path of any hungry Avenger that could kick him awake was also not the nicest. Even when he had been in Thanos' captivity, he had been assigned his own cell and regular, if poor, meals. It seemed he didn't even rank as 'prisoner' in the Avengers' minds.

At least he still had hot showers. Sure, the Avengers were setting in and spent a lot more time in their rooms as of late, especially with autumn slowly turning into winter, but if he couldn't find an Avenger-free room, there were always the shower in the gym.

He disliked how open everything was there—the stalls had curtains, not glass doors, and everyone could come in if they wanted to—but if he made sure to wait out the morning training then he had the whole place to himself, and all the hot water he could want.

* * *

One night, Jarvis woke him, and he tensed up, expecting an awake Avenger to be coming his way, but he heard nothing.

"Jarvis? Did you wake me?" he asked, dubious. Maybe he had dreamt it up. It happened often, now that he slept so exposed: he could never fall fully asleep, and sometimes reality bled into his dreams, or the other way round, and he imagined things that weren't there.

"I did, Loki," answered his friend, "I have a request."

Loki nodded and stood up gingerly, his joints protesting. He had been curled up on himself, tense, for long hours, and his body was feeling it alright. "Just say the word and it will be done, my friend."

"Master Stark has fallen asleep in his workshop," he said, and it explained everything.

Stark had been in his workshop, apparently inspired or something, for the last three days, living on nothing but coffee and the food Jarvis told Loki to bring him. Stark never asked for food, seemingly forgetting he needed sustenance, and was always surprised when Loki brought it, often making him wait because he was doing delicate work he couldn't interrupt.

It seemed he had forgotten to sleep, too, despite having a cot in the workshop for that purpose.

Loki sighed and walked toward the lift. He blinked blearily as he waited for the metal box to reach him and then walked into it, trusting Jarvis to deliver him to where he needed to be. Indeed, when the doors opened again, he was greeted by the sight of a complete mess—Stark generally kept his workshop in order and close to spotless, but completely forgot about it when he had these science binges—and a man slumped forward over a worktable pitifully.

Stark seemed to be building a new robot, from what Loki could see—though Jarvis had only recently begun teaching him, and he didn't recognise most of the pieces—and he was now sleeping with his cheek pressed against a motherboard, drooling over a pile of components.

Sighing, Loki approached the man and gathered him to his chest, stuffing one arm under his legs and curling the other around his shoulders. When he lifted Stark, propping his sleeping body on his chest, he saw that the man had a microprocessor sticking to his cheek and pulled it off. It left a mark, amusingly enough. Then he heaved and stood up, carrying Stark like a mother carries a sleeping child.

"Shall I take him to his bed, Jarvis?" he asked softly, Stark's slow, rhythmical breath tickling the skin of his neck. "Or will that cot do?"

"His bed." Jarvis answered in a hushed tone, reluctant to wake Stark. "He made the cot uncomfortable on purpose as an incentive not to sleep too much in it."

Loki nodded. It was almost no effort to him, either way, not with the small man curled up into a tiny ball as he was. He glided to the elevator, reminded of carrying little sleeping Baldur, and Jarvis opened the doors for him. Stark stirred a bit, kicking out one leg and curling one arm over Loki's shoulder, clinging to him like the ape he was, but Loki shifted into his movements, not dropping him.

The elevator arrived at Stark's floor, braking more softly than was usual. Jarvis again. Loki walked out and carried Stark to his bed, turning the covers down with magic and setting the sleeping man between the sheets. He took off Stark's shoes but left the soft cotton pants and the black tank top on—it would be comfortable enough to sleep in, he decided—and tucked him in.

He instinctively pressed a kiss to the sleeping man's forehead, having done the same for Balder and for his own children, and had the same done to him by Frigga. It seemed natural: put someone to sleep, tuck them in, kiss their forehead or smooth their hair. Loki did both.

"Mom," Stark whispered, lost in dreams, leaning into the touch, a small smile on his face.

Loki pulled away as if burnt and all but ran from the room, returning to his little cot and curling up tight, refusing to thing about Frigga or his children a second longer.

* * *

Saturday, almost two months into his enslavement. Washing day, officially, although everyday was washing day if Loki had a say in it.

It was after lunch and the Avengers were scattered all over the tower. He had been unable to wash for some days, when it seemed the mortals had agreed on always being around. His hair was impossibly tangled into knots and the oil that had built up was starting to bother even himself, so he decided to take his chances.

Loki didn't see anyone. He heard water running, but as it fell in always the same steady stream, he assumed someone had left the shower on – it hand been known to happen when the Avengers were called away urgently or when they left in a hurry.

So he didn't even check. Instead, he stripped and hung his clothes on the hook outside carefully—they were his only set, after all, and he didn't want them to get wet—and stepped into the stall.

Big mistake.

As soon as he turned the hot water on, he head the outraged yelp. "What the fuck?"

Barton's voice. Curses!

Loki didn't even have time to react, frozen in place in his surprise, before a wet, naked mortal with lightning in his eyes stalked over to his stall and threw the curtain open.

" _Loki,_ " the man growled, "you troll! I should've know it would be _you_." He walked into the stall, elbowing Loki aside, throwing him against the tiled wall rather painfully, and turned off the water. "Don't use the hot water!" he yelled.

Loki lowered his head, acknowledging the order. One would think he would have become used to the sense of powerlessness and frustration that came with being given one, but they still felt like a chain, heavy and bulky around his shoulders...

"As you wish, _Master._ " He kept his head bowed, pretending deference. He didn't want to anger Barton further – not weakened and tired as he was. He really didn't want a repeat of the last time Barton had caught him unaware.

Barton glared at him grumpily, kicked his shin for good measure and went back to his shower.

Loki waited him out, letting himself slide down the wall onto the tiled floor. He had been extremely lucky he had caught Barton naked, and thus weaponless. He rested his arms on his bent knees and rested his face on them, hiding from the world in a cold, wet stall.

Things had started out so well. He had had great food; comfy, private places to sleep and comforting hot showers. Now he hadn't eaten anything but scraps in a month, or slept comfortable or warm, and from this day forward he was also denied warm water to wash with.

He wasn't crying. The water on his face was from the shower.

He reached up and turned the cold water on.

* * *

 

About a two weeks later, not even three months into captivity, Loki was leaning on the wall, his stomach rumbling, pondering his place in the universe. Things he had learnt so far:

1) Humans, or at least those he'd been given to, were petty beings who enjoyed being cruel to those beneath them for sport, and when they weren't doing it on purpose, they were doing it by accident.

2) Humans forgot their promises very easily, or at least were not compelled to honour them, unlike Asgardians. For all they had promised Odin and Thor to take care of him and provide him with shelter and sustenance and treat him well, they hadn't noticed he hasn't eaten but scraps off their table in the last month, nor that he hasn't been yet able to sleep a full night in the dirty excuse for a dog bed in which he had been ordered to sleep.

3) Loki would never be able to accept humans as his equals — therefore, he'd remain a slave to them until he died.

Loki was distracted from his poisonous thoughts by a chunk of bread bouncing off his head. He rolled his eyes and turned to Stark, who had thrown it at him. "Yes, _Master_?" he enquired tiredly, making the word 'master' sound exactly like he was only calling him that because he had been ordered to.

Stark smiled winsomely at him. "I'm still hungry, _slave,_ get me more food," he gestured to his plate, which was _right next to_ the serving platter.

Loki rolled his eyes and moved from where he had been standing, waiting on the Avengers as they gorged on the food Loki had prepared, making a mess which Loki would have to clean up, and stood next to the table. He snatched Stark's plate irritably and piled a couple slices of meat and mashed potatoes inelegantly onto the plate, trying to ignore the pangs of his own hunger at the sight of food he couldn't have. He dropped the plate brusquely down in front of Stark.

"Too much again, Cinderella. I think you overestimate my stomach," Stark said idly, nonplussed by Loki's lack of deference or respect or even basic manners.

Which was exactly Loki's plan. Since Romanov had caught him wasting grocery money on chocolate and, in her anger, forbade him from 'wasting good food' on himself, he had been reduced to eating whatever was left over in the Avenger's plates or things that would have otherwise been considered trash. Because apparently the geas considered a lot of things 'good food', even so-called 'junk' food and leftovers. By serving them more than they could eat, he made sure that, between the five of them (sometimes more, if they had guests), he would be enough scraps for an adequate-ish meal.

Loki was about to reply something quite brilliant and scathing about Stark not having to worry about wasting food because he could afford it, but Banner cleared his throat in that especial annoyingly-shy way of his and nudged his plate towards Loki. "Since you are already there," he explained in his infuriating shrinking-violet manner, which Loki didn't believe for a second.

Sneering hatefully, Loki took the serving spoon and slopped some mashed potatoes onto his plate, before spearing three slices (he felt like he deserved it, for having to deal with this) violently with the serving fork and shaking them over the plate until they dropped with a satisfying _plop._ He stabbed more meat without raising his head, anticipating Rogers' request for more.

True to form, the man's plate was there when he looked. Suddenly tired of serving everyone one by one, he growled and let go of the fork, leaving it sticking up from its place in the meant. Instead, he waved his hands purposely, and food vanished from the platters only to appear in Rogers', Barton's and Romanov's plates.

"Thanks, Loki," said Rogers happily.

Loki _hated_ him. Hated his good manners and his politeness when he _knew_ the man despised him. The hypocrite. Always asking for things nicely, as though orders would start being requests because he said _please_ and _thank you_.

"Is there anything else you require, _Masters_? _Mistress_?" he asked meekly, masking the loathing in his voice and averting his gaze so they would not see the burning hatred.

"Yeah," called Stark, and held up a piece of bread soaked in gravy, "you forgot to beg us for scraps like the dog you are." He whistled like man calling his dog and smiled cruelly as he said, "Here, boy," and tossed the morsel at Loki. He missed, and it bounced off the wall behind him and fell to the floor.

Loki stared at it, unimpressed, then shifted his gave back to Stark, his face expressionless.

The man gestured at the piece of bread. "Go on, eat it," he said grinning into his glass of water.

Loki did. He averted his eyes again and reached down to pick it up, putting it in his mouth, facing away from them. He closed in eyes in pleasure – it was heavenly. The gravy was rich and warm, melting on his tongue, and bread was still fresh and fluffy, the golden crust crunching beneath his teeth as he chewed slowly, trying to draw the experience out as long as he could. He held the chewed mush in his mouth, over his tongue, tasting it until he could taste no more, swallowing drop by heavenly drop.

His stomach thought it meant it was feeding time now, and hunger ran rampant through him. He would have killed for another bite, but refrained, instead keeping his head high and his back straight. No. He would not give Stark the pleasure of begging for more.

"Say thank you, Loki," Rogers reminded him. The sanctimonious _prick_.

Loki trembled with contained rage, his tense muscles straining to hold back the punches he desperate wanted to give out like candy on All Hallows Eve. He bit his tongue and ground out, "Thank you, _Master_."

He couldn't see Stark's face, turned as he was, but sadly he knew the man well enough to guess there was a smirk there. He swallowed the vitriol he wanted to spew and went back to his spot by the wall, to wait until they needed something else, face impassive but eyes burning. He wanted the night to be over.

But then, there was always the morning, and midday, and next night, and the ones after those. A never-ending cycle of servitude and humiliation and hunger and abuse.

Almost three months in, one would think he would have grown used to it.

One would be wrong.

* * *

 

After cleaning up lunch, it was grocery time again.

Cheers.

No, really. He always took the opportunity to eat something on the way. He had discovered pigeons and rats were quite edible and delicious when he was in the from of a hawk in the last trip, when his bird instincts had him plummeting down into the concrete tiles of the sidewalk when he spotted a rat.

Spirits bless animal instincts – it was all that was keeping him alive. The thrill of the hunt. Taking out his pent up anger with his general situation on living creatures, feeling their feeble struggles as he devoured them. Good times.

Currently, he was drying his hands on a dishtowel while Jarvis recited the list of things to buy. It had much diminished in both quantity and price since Loki had stopped being fed, considering he ate as much as all five of them put together and still had room for desert afterwards, and Stark had commented on it, praising his money-saving skills.

The man seemed completely oblivious, and Loki wanted him to remain that way. No matter what Stark said, he _would not_ beg for something that should be offered to him freely, what with his being Stark's "guest".

Loki tossed the dishtowel away and made for the balcony.

He always flew when he had the chance. It was his only moment of relative freedom, away from the constant cries for attentions of the humans Odin had loaned him to, away from duties and remembering the million orders he was placed under at the same time, wary of stepping out of line.

The balcony was empty, so he took the rare chance to breath in the relatively clean air and let the now cold wind run through his hair. The sun was bright, if pale, and he stood still, eyes closed, basking in the sunlight.

He missed Stark walking up to the landing pad, the mechanical arms assembling his suit around him.

"Getting your cold blood all warmed up, Godzilla?" the man yelled over the distance, the speakers making his voice carry over the wind.

Peace broken, Loki turned to sneer at the human. "I'm going to get groceries, for your information."

Stark, enfolded in his ridiculous metal armour, flew towards him, hovering in the air outside the balcony right in front of Loki. His face-plate lifted. "Uh-huh. Exit to the building is on the ground floor," he explained, as though talking to a child.

Loki flicked him aside with a twist of his wrist and jumped over the railing before the man could react. He dropped a couple of floors, enjoying the free-fall, and turned into a falcon when he reached terminal velocity, transitioning seamlessly from free-fall to flight with ease born of long practise.

Then he saw Stark's ugly red armour out of the corner of his eye, following him.

Loki flew in a great vertical circle, positioning himself behind Stark so the man couldn't see him, but the armour turned in mid-air and a gauntlet reached for him. He fanned out his wings and tails, braking, and Stark went on forward, carried by his own momentum.

This was fun.

Loki dropped again, flying very low. He flapped his way under a car and flew in the small space beneath it, hiding from Stark. But soon he spotted the man flying by the car, reaching under it, groping for the bird. Loki avoided him and flew sideways, going under the next car on Stark's far side, and then out again, barely avoiding a bus that was going the other way.

He flew up, and Stark followed him, so he used an old trick: he shat mid-air so that the muck would end up on Stark's visors and slow him down. When the man stopped cold and rubbed his metal glove over his faceplate, Loki took the chance and landed on his helmet, pecking at it, knowing the sound inside the helmet would be unbearable.

And then he spotted a nice, fat rat in the alley over yonder, so he parted from Stark with one last peck and launched himself into a hunting stoop after it.

The ugly, tasty thing didn't even have time to react before it was in his claws, and he settled on a light post to eat his meal, tearing into it with great relish.

"Well, that's disgusting," Stark commented, floating idly by Loki, his face-plate up. "And I'm not talking about the rat. I had to use my hand to wipe your poop off my face. My hand!" he repeated, holding the gauntlet-covered hand in question up, as if to show Loki proof.

In answer, Loki slurped the rat's small intestines, splashing blood everywhere, and turned his back on Stark.

"So," the man continued, undaunted, flying in a circle around the post to face Loki again, "do you eat rat because, you know, instinct? Or do you actually like the taste? 'Cause lemme tell you, that stew you cooked the other day was awesome, but if it had rat in it I think I'm gonna have to ask you to never make it again."

Loki paused eating to regard him. ' _You are really stupid sometimes. What do you think I eat? Food?_ '

"By the way, that was some awesome flying there, Toothless. We should play air tag more often," the mortal grinned, waving his arms at his sides, which propelled him in circles as though we were swimming.

' _Toothless? You really should stop using Midgardian references I don't understand,_ ' Loki thought, and tore the last piece of meat from the rat, gobbling it down hungrily. Then, without warning, the flew into Stark's face—

_Don't harm us._

—and wiped his beak clean on the mortal's nose instead of pecking out his eyeballs.

"Hey!" He was already flying away when Stark raised a hand to bat him away, so it didn't count as dodging.

Loki gave a high-pitched cry and flew away. Stark followed closely, trying to grab him, but Loki started flying in complicated, unpredictable patters. He hated behaving like prey unless he was doing it to lure a predator into a trap, but Stark was too close and too big, there was no other choice for Loki.

He flew them to a park, where he found plenty of pigeons just lying about, being fed bread by humans—even the flying vermin ate better than him!—and scooped one, killing it quickly in flight. The rat would have been easier to eat in mid-air. This thing had feathers everywhere, and he needed to pull them out if he wanted to eat.

He stopped again, by a lake, and Stark landed beside him.

"What, again?" he complained as Loki started pulling out feathers from the bird's chest with his beak, holding the body with his claws. "You make more pit stops than all the cars in a Formula 1 race put together."

Loki, sick and tired of the game, flew into Stark's face again, this time pecking him where he could reach, slapping him with his wings. He screeched right in his ear before clamping his beak on it. Stark slapped him away—

_Don't dodge._

—with force, sending him tumbling away into the nearby pond.

Stark curled up in a fit of laughter at that, slapping the grass beneath him in mirth and sending clumps of dirt everywhere.

Drenched and cold, Loki turned back into his Aesir shape. The water now reached his ankles, instead of his shoulders, like it had in his bird form. He walked the two steps to the shore and picked up his dead pigeon, continuing the task of pulling out the feathers, ignoring Stark.

He pulled out a knife and skinned it, tossing the bloody mess of skin and feathers into the pond and tearing into the carcass. He picked out the heart and lungs and popped them into his mouth straight away.

"Eugh," Stark murmured, incredibly grossed out. "Seriously? What's wrong with your Shepherd's pie?"

Loki kept on ignoring him, finishing the scarce meat and crunching on some of the bones. He licked his fingers clean afterwards and laid back, shivering from the dirty pond water in his clothes, trying to warm up with the pale, weak sunlight, and drew upon his magic to dry his clothes.

"No, seriously. What's up with eating rats and pigeons?"

Loki sighed, closing his eyes, and turned his face away. "Don't you have somewhere to be, _Master_?" he asked, tired. Playing with Stark had been fun, but he wished to be alone now.

The mortal, his face still stained with rat blood, grinned. "So nice of you to care!" his voice dripped sarcasm. "Actually, yes, I do! I was on the way to a business meeting before you decided to do your very own Reichenbach Fall re-enaction." He looked pointedly at Loki.

"Well, go, then. You are not wanted here, _Master_ ," Loki said coldly, before pushing himself to his feet and walking away without looking back. He still needed to go to the market.

Looking around, Loki realised he was completely lost. He had somehow ended up in what looked like a bad neighbourhood in his and Stark's mad chase across the skies.

There were a lot of people dressed cheaply, and loose-looking women standing on street. Loki shifted his clothes to mimic those of the young men—jeans, garish running shoes, an oversized jacket and a folded kerchief tied around his head, lots of gaudy jewellery—in order to blend in more easily, and also darkened the colour of his skin a few shades.

He walked past the women, curious about what they were doing, and watched as cars stopped by, the women approaching them and chatting with the drivers, always male and alone, through the open window. Most of them got into the cars, and then drove off.

A hand landed on his arm and he turned around in alarm.

"Hey, sweety," crooned from his side a girl wearing clothes that showed more than they hid and so much make up it was a wonder she was still standing instead of tipping forward, "I'll do _you_ for half the price." She winked flirtatiously.

Loki wasn't stupid. He knew almost instantly this girl—as all the women dressed similarly and standing still, waiting for cars—was a prostitute. He had been disconcerted by the way they stood around, on display, waiting for customers – had brothels fallen out of favour?

"How much is that?" he asked, taking care to seem interested. And he was, just not in what the girl thought he was. How much did sex cost on Midgard?

"For you? Hmm," she tapped her chin thoughtfully, probably running the numbers through her head. "Ten bucks for oral, twenty-five for a fuck. Forty if it's anal."

Cheap. Then again, she _did_ say she was giving him half price. He smiled apologetically at her. "I'm sorry, luv," he exaggerated the accent, "but I'm currently on an errand. If you could point me in the direction of a supermarket I'd be most grateful."

Her face seemed to fall, and Loki got the feeling she had been expecting his refusal. "Sure," she said, letting go of his arm and bending hers over her not inconsiderable chest. "Just go on three streets in that direction," she pointed with her chin, "until you see a doughnuts shop, and take a left. You can't miss it."

Loki thanked her, inclining his head politely, and kissed the back of her hand. Why not? It wasn't like he was the epitome of cleanliness, having just eaten a rat he had found rolling in a dumpster barely an hour before.

The girl blushed, and Loki smiled as he let go of her hand.

The look on her face when Loki came back forty minutes later and gave her a dozen doughnuts could have lit a whole city. He usually stole the change for himself, but since he couldn't eat them and they had looked tasty, he had decided to live vicariously through her and her work friends, with whom she shared the box.

That was his excuse and he was sticking to it.

* * *

But the encounter with the whores gave him _ideas_ that refused to leave his mind, no matter how many times he tried to suppress them. Telling his silly, silly self that he wouldn't debase himself by selling his body for _amenities_ when he could equally debase himself by just begging the humans for them and spare himself the indignity worked for about five minutes, and then his pride reared up and yelled about not giving them the satisfaction...

He gave in one night, when the Avengers sent him out for ice-cream movie night, as he saw an employee leave a restaurant with bags of trash and put them in the skip, and homeless humans flocking to it to dig around for food.

He stealthily turned into a young human girl in the brink of adulthood and approached the employee when he was about to go inside to get more bags of trash. The man in question was pasty white and full of pimples. Loki didn't think he got girls that looked like Loki looked right now throwing themselves at him very often.

"Hey there," he crooned, voice soft and feminine, and the man stopped in his tracks, turning to look at Loki. "I'm Lola." He ran a finger up the stranger's arm coyly.

The man regarded the girl with wide eyes. "Um, hi, Lola." He seemed to lean into Loki, smelling him, and Loki projected elfish pheromones to draw him in even further. "I'm Timothy, but you can call me Timmy." He blushed, and Loki was certain that was what his mother called him.

Loki giggled, a sound practised to seem innocent and enticing at the same time. "Hi, Timmy," he spoke breathily, leaning even closer so that his breath moistened the man's cheek. "I think we could help each other out."

Timothy took Loki aside, a greedy gleam in his eyes. "How do you mean?" he breathed.

"Well, I'm sure a man like you has _needs,_ " Loki murmured enticingly, already bored with the game of charades. "A girl like me could take care of those needs, if you let me." He laid his palm flat on the mortal's chest and rubbed up and down slowly, internally disgusted at how easy mortal men were.

He could feel Timothy's heart pick up under his hand, so he tilted his head back as though leaning up for a kiss, but stopped mere centimetres away and let his warm, moist breath ghost over Timothy's lips.

"Yes!" the man blurted out, one hand going around Loki's waist and the other clenching on his shoulder, pulling them closer, and went for a kiss.

But Loki was faster, and he managed to place the tip of his index finger on the eager mortal's lips. "Ah-ah," he crooned, sing-song, "not quite. First..." he trailed off.

The man's eyes bulged out slightly. Oh, he was angry now. "What do you want?" he demanded, his fingers digging into Loki's flesh.

Ha! As if this weak mortal would ever hope to intimidate him when he had no power over Loki. "I want..." Loki stopped to consider. Should he ask for money, as well as food? Maybe not. Not until Timothy was addicted to him and would do whatever Loki asked for. "...food. All the scraps you throw away?" he motioned to the skip on the street a few paces from them, still swarming with indigents. "Tomorrow, save them for me, will you?" he pleaded, not quite pitifully, his eyes glinting with amusement as he looked at the mortal.

The man let him go, shaking his head in amusement. "I thought you were gonna ask me to help you rob the place..." he said, grinning ruefully. "Food, seriously?"

Loki nodded, returning the grin, extremely confused. He was using Timothy's baser needs to sate his own, and the man found that amusing? He played along, though. "Indeed. I find myself in _dire_ straits," he said sadly, though the wrinkling of the corners of his eyes belied that.

Timothy licked his lips. "Sure, I'll save you food," he shrugged, trying for nonchalant, but Loki saw he was anxious. "And you? What are you offering me?" He looked Loki's girly body up and down, sizing him up.

Standing so that a hip jutted out, Loki brushed back his long hair and set that hand on his waist, displaying the body he had shape-shifted into. "Well, my friends call me Silvertongue," he said saucily.

"Oral, huh?" The man seemed to think about it, before nodding. "Yeah, okay, fair price. So, once a week, twice?"

The idea of getting on his knees for this kind of man already make Loki's skin crawl... Doing it two times a week? No. But his stomach disagreed with his pride, as usual.

He nodded. "Twice a week sounds fine. Tuesdays and Saturdays at closing time."

"Fine by me, _Lola_ ," Timothy grinned lecherously. "Come around by 11:30 on Saturday and 10:30 on Tuesday."

Loki smiled graciously. "It's a deal, _Timmy_." He winked and sauntered off, making sure to sway his hips in that enticing way he had practised in front of mirrors at a young age, and that had never failed him yet.

He changed back into his usual Aesir body on the way to the ice-cream parlour, and no hint of Lorelei was left on him, not even the pheromones that had been trapped in the fabric of his clothes, by the time he returned to the tower.

He served the cold treat absentmindedly, his head occupied with dangerous thoughts. Should he show up? Was it worth it, debasing himself in such a manner for mere scraps? Let alone that it would be an industrial quantity of scraps, for the restaurant was pretty busy usually; it was the principle of the matter.

Sure, he had allowed people use of his body for less than noble intentions in the past, back when he had still been a prince. He had had no qualms about spreading his legs and thinking of Asgard when it was a foreign ambassador in need of convincing between them, or when he had needed to lure a target to assassinate. No, he was no stranger to using sex as a bargaining chip or as bait, and being able to take whatever shape he wanted was a great advantage in that field.

But now it wasn't Asgard's continued peace and prosperity he was thinking of, but his own stomach. Next he would start thinking that giving in to Stark's innuendo to gain access to his bed was a good idea.

…It certainly held appeal. Stark's bed was huge and very, very nice to lay on, as he knew from having lain in it numerous times back when he had still been allowed to. He would only have to endure the man's touches thirty minutes at most—he didn't think Stark would last longer, not if Loki did his job right—and then he would have bought the right to sleep there until dawn.

The promise of uninterrupted sleep while laying down in what was possibly the best mattress in the world, dressed in the softest cotton sheets... Yes, it was appealing, there was no denying that.

"That's gonna melt if you wait much longer to serve it," Banner said from Loki's right, startling him.

"My apologies, _Master._ " Loki averted his gaze to the bowl in his hands. The single spoonful he had served there was half-melted already, so he scooped it out into the sink and ran water over it, lest he be tempted to eat it.

"Let me help you with that," he said, grabbing the ice-cream spoon from Loki.

' _Well, if you ask so nicely,'_ Loki thought sarcastically, passing him the tub. "Yes, _Master._ Shall I put the bowls you serve on a tray?" Like he had been about to already, with the tray in question resting on the counter? "Shall I get the spoons out?" They already were. "Shall I twiddle my thumbs and stare at the ceiling while you do my work for me, _Master_?"

Banner gave him a sideway glance full of derision. "There's no need to be condescending, Loki, I was only trying to help."

Loki regarded him coolly. "Oh. I see now, you fear I will take some for myself." The fear would have been well founded, were not Loki under a restriction not to eat. He had, after all stolen a few spoonfuls—ah, very well, an entire tub—before.

Arching an eyebrow at Loki, Banner went to the cupboard and withdrew a sixth bowl. Then he filled it with ice-cream and handed it to Loki. "There, all yours," he said, and took the tray with the served bowls to the living room.

So close and yet so far... Banner was a cruel man, to give him the treat he had been craving but not allow him to eat it.

Loki stared at the bowl in his hands until the heat from his hands melted the ice-cream, and then he left it on the counter.

* * *

 

Three months to the dot, now, and Loki was in the kitchen, scraping all the leftover food on the plates into his mouth. It wasn't much, even though he had calculated the meal for ten humans and served everything on the plates—apparently, he was too good a cook nowadays—so, taking advantage of his privacy, he licked the plates clean—he had very little pride left, nowadays—before washing them. They hadn't even left him any bread, the monsters.

Good thing he had a plan B, then.

Thanking his lucky stars it was a Saturday night already, Loki walked to the balcony and jumped, transforming into a pigeon mid-air. He flew about three blocks until he found what he had sought: Timmy's restaurant, almost empty of people.

There he was now in all his pasty, pock-marked glory, by the back door that connected the kitchen to the alley behind it, holding a plastic box in his hands and looking at his watch irritably. Loki dove into the shadows as a pigeon and emerged as Lola, with oily yet tidy hair, dirt-smudged cheeks, and dressed in old but well-kept rags.

"You are late," the busboy said impatiently.

"Apologies," Loki answered, speaking low and soft. It seemed to appeal to Timothy all the more when he played at being abashed. "My father was up drinking and I had to wait for him to drop off before I could sneak out." Oh yes. Playing the pitiful girl with money issues and family problems had been a great life choice, especially once he had convinced Timmy no one would come looking or care if he returned home with some bruises in suspicious places, despite being a pretty girl. He smirked in his head.

Timmy seemed to swallow his bold-faced lie easily. "Well then," he said snottily, "get to it. I have to go clean up and close the place." He lowered the box filled with food to the floor and laid back against the brick wall, before taking his hands to his crotch and unzipping his uniform trousers. He got out his semi-hard cock out and stroked it to full hardness.

Lowering his head, Loki approached the young man and knelt in front of him. He got into character and looked up at Timmy through his lashes, smiling deviously, and kissed his cock in a manner that would seem reverent to anyone looking at them. All part of the game. Then he opened his lips and sucked the pale, fat cock into his mouth, and got his head bobbing.

Timmy dug his dirty, pudgy hand into Loki's hair and 'helped' move his head, giving fast, shallow thrusts into the girl's small young mouth. Loki didn't have to do much—it had always been clear Timmy here wasn't getting any anywhere else—aside from keeping his muscles pliant and his throat relaxed. Soon enough, the busboy was thrusting as hard and deep as he could, spilling his seed in Loki mouth and throat with loud grunts.

He tapped Timmy's leg to warn him he needed to breathe, and the young man moved readily enough. A string of spit and cum joined them as Loki pulled apart, before breaking and splashing Loki's chin. He licked his lips reflexively, tasting the red lipstick, and swallowed.

"Fuck yeah," Timmy said, stroking Loki's hair almost affectionately, "I love it when you swallow."

Loki allowed himself to smirk. "It's why I do it, _Timmy_ ," he answered rather breathlessly, eyes fixed on Timothy's dilated pupils. All performance, of course, but Timmy didn't need to know that, hm?

"Yeah, love, just keep doing that." Timmy patted him on the top of his head and then helped him stand. "See you tuesday?"

"Sure," said Loki with a wink and bent down to pick up the bag, making sure to point his rump at Timmy. "Bye." He blew Timmy a kiss over his shoulder and turned into himself as soon as the man was back inside and out of sight.

He chose to sit on the deserted entrance of some bank that was midway to Stark Tower. The steps of the stairs were nice and wide, extremely comfortable to sit on. He put the bag on his lap—Timothy had even warmed it up for him—and opened it.

He spotted pork chops and lasagne, among other things, and cheered in his head. He loved lasagne.

Whoring himself out for food? _So_ worth it.

He dug in happily.

* * *

Having lost whatever extra padding he had had left—even thought he was going to start regaining it soon thanks to the regular meals—meant that now it was easier for him to curl up on his dog bed, but it also meant it was much more uncomfortable.

It also meant it hurt a lot more when Stark kicked him in the side, apparently thinking him asleep, and growled out, "Feed me."

Loki sighed, uncoiling his limbs and standing. It wasn't like he had been sleeping deeply anyway; winter was setting in for good, and it was cold in the kitchen where he'd been told to sleep; besides, the constant gnawing in his stomach made it even harder to relax into sleep.

He glanced at the microwave oven clock. Four in the morning. Stark had truly the most illogical of sleep patterns. Still.

Loki bowed his head tiredly. "Of course, Master. What would you like?" Wow, and that 'master' hadn't even sounded that sarcastic – he was losing his touch.

Stark rubbed his goatee as he pondered the choices. "An omelette, with ham and cheese. Oh, and mushrooms!" he settled on at last, and sat on the bar to watch Loki work.

The enslaved god ignored him and got to cooking. He also started the coffee machine—he always left it ready to start the night before, so he only had to press the 'on' button—while he diced some ham and sliced some mushrooms. His mouth was watering at the smell and he itched to sneak a square of ham or cheese into his empty stomach, but the headache he would get wasn't worth it. Instead, he dropped the filling into the layer of egg in the pan and skilfully folded everything over, closing it seamlessly without spilling a single drop.

He served Stark a cup of coffee while the cheese finished melting and then served the omelette with a flourish. "Here you go, _Master._ "

Stark looked suitably impressed. "Look at you, all Gordon Ramsey," he grinned and used his fork to cut off the corner end closer to him. He moaned in pleasure when he put it in his mouth and chewed. "Wow, this is _good_!"

Busying himself with washing the pan so he wouldn't have to watch the man eat all the food he himself couldn't have, Loki smiled bittersweetly and replied, softly, "Only the best for Tony Stark, hm?"

Stark choked on his coffee, laughing. "Ha! Indeed, who else could have a god—a _god!_ —as his personal servant?"

Loki served himself a glass of hot tap water—it would fill his stomach and dilute his digestive juices, tricking his body into thinking it had eaten—and couldn't resist answering as he turned around to face the mortal. Really, Stark had totally set himself up for it. "Well, I could think of _at least_ four other people off the top of my head." He hid his smirk behind the glass of water as he sipped from it, one eyebrow arched.

Stark snorted into his omelette. "Too true, too true." He was still grinning, and therefore chewing with his mouth open. It was disgusting.

Loki couldn't look away.

"Join me?" the man said unexpectedly.

Thanking all his stars the man hadn't actually told him to eat, for he would have hated to have to consume his box of scraps from Timothy so soon (he had been hoping to stretch it until Monday, when he would go out for groceries and could thus take the time to hunt down some vermin to store in the freezer) Loki deflected the offer with a very fake smile.

"No thanks, _Master_." Really, it wasn't worth the pain of breaking the no-food rule. "I'm not hungry."

Stark seemed to accept that easily enough. He shrugged. "Well, suit yourself, then!" he said and continued eating the omelette with relish while Loki stared at him, watching iike a stray dog watches the window of a butcher's shop as Stark shovelled food into his mouth carelessly, chewed barely long enough to taste it and chased it down with coffee. He averted his gaze, however, when Stark looked up at him.

"What's with the creepy staring?" he asked impatiently with his mouth full.

"Nothing, _Master,_ " Loki replied idly, "just checking if you need anything else."

"More coffee."

Loki poured him more coffee, already knowing it would be one of those days.

Then his stomach growled pathetically loud, drawing Stark's attention. ' _Traitor_ ,' Loki thought at it harshly.

The mortal froze, fork hovering midway between his plate and his face, and looked at Loki's midsection dubiously, before arching an eyebrow at his impassive face. "Not hungry, huh," he commented idly, before making his hand travel the rest of the distance and placing the chunk of eggs and filling in his mouth. It wasn't a question.

Loki was trapped. He didn't know what to do, anymore. "No, not at all," he lied softly, eyed fixed on Stark's chewing mouth. Dammit it all, but he was _hungry._

Stark snorted. "Yeah right." He swallowed, and looked down at his plate before setting the fork down turning back to Loki. "Okay, let's have it. I can tell you are dying to say it."

Should he? Should he tell Stark exactly how much they were mistreating him after promising hospitality? Should he let him know how pathetic Loki was, how he was breaking little by little under their _care_? Should he reach out for help after being harshly denied every single time he had done it before?

_Don't let them see._

"There is nothing to say, Master," he said in monotone, looking away. "May I go to sleep now, or do you require my presence to continue eating? Maybe you would like me to feed you, as well, _Master_?"

Stark stared at him, head tilted a bit to the right. "Yeah, go right ahead, Aurora," he spoke at length, pointing with fork at the little corner of Nifleheim that was Loki's little cot.

Nodding gracefully, Loki walked the few steps separating him from the dog bed and sat down on it, curled up with his knees tucked under his chin and his arms tightly around them, leaning sideways on the wall, his back half-turned to Stark. He swallowed a few times to get rid of the thick saliva that had gathered in his mouth at the sight and smell of hot fresh food, and clenched his eyes closed.

He did his best to ignore Stark, shivering a bit in the morning's biting cold—it was specially cold closer to the floor, which was made of polished stone—and taking a few deep breaths.

He was going to get stuck like this for the rest of his long, long life, at the beck and call of these mortals, and their children after them, and _their_ children afterwards, in an endless loop of humiliation and servitude and bondage, because there was no way he would ever consider humans his equals.

For _he_ hadn't tortured his slaves, back when he had had the Chitauri staff. Sure, at first he had forgotten to feed them and allow them sleep, more interested in getting work done and not used to being around such weak creatures, but then he _had noticed_ how ragged he'd been running them, and allowed them to eat and rest and have time for themselves. Even Barton, though the man hadn't been able to sleep for nightmares.

But he had _cared_. He had been a good master.

And now he was repaid by having his needs ignored and being belittled by his masters every chance they got.

' _How are we similar, Odin?_ ' he wondered, inhaling shakily and clenching his arms tighter around himself. ' _Is that what you see when you look at me? A pathetic wretch with delusions of grandeur and pretensions to the throne? So pathetic even gods have forsaken me?_ '

Suddenly, there was a hand in his hair.

He let his head loll to the side, leaning into the touch instinctively, and opened his eyes to look at Stark, pretending he didn't know they were rimmed with red. "Yes, Master? Was there something else you needed?" he enquired tiredly, blinking the slight burn away.

Stark took his hand back as if bitten, eyed wide. "No—no, not at all. I was just—just leaving." He started walking backwards, bumped into the island counter, then hesitated before turning around and all but fleeing.

Loki watched him go until he disappeared, then relaxed and smiled softly.

' _Hook, line and sinker_ ,' he thought, the satisfaction soothing the hurt of the thoughts he had allowed himself to have to get into character.

"May I commend you on a stupendous performance, Loki?" Jarvis asked, and Loki didn't know if he was being sarcastic or not.

Leaning his head back against the fridge behind him, Loki smiled bittersweetly. "You may, if you truly want to. I know you don't like it when I con the humans. Could you tell me the time?"

"A quarter to five." Excellent, it was late enough to be up and about. It wasn't like he could go back to sleep now. "Even if I do not enjoy it, I have to admire your skills. Now, rook to F7."

"Rook to G1," Loki answered instantly, "And thank you." Truly, not many people, corporeal or otherwise, appreciated his ability to manipulate other people.

"King to G7," Jarvis replied, and he sounded slightly anxious.

"When do think he will come back?" Loki stood up and walked to the island counter. "Also, Knight to G4." Stark had left about half the omelette. ' _Guess having your charge curl up in misery kills your appetite,'_ he thought acidly, darkly amused, and grabbed the fork, considering the food.

"Oh, he will take some time to get over himself. Bishop to C6. No more than two weeks, if you leave him to his devices, less if you help him along."

Jarvis was so helpful. He knew Stark best, and he wasn't against sharing some of that intelligence when he knew Loki's intentions were harmless, if selfish. Loki cut off a corner of the omelette and put it in his mouth gingerly, ready to spit it out in case Stark regarded it as 'leftovers' instead of 'trash'. He let out a startled moan.

Oh, it was still hot, the cheese inside all melted, the juices from the mushrooms blending perfectly with those of the ham, the eggs on the inside still a bit runny, just the way he liked it.

" _Fuck,_ " he breathed, savouring the food. "Queen to C6," he said around the mouthful of sheer deliciousness, reluctant to swallow it just yet and miss out on having the taste lingering on his tongue. "Queen takes Bishop. When I regain my freedom, I will make you a body and feed you exactly this. You _have_ to try it."

It was a running joke between them. Loki would speak about getting Jarvis a body and stealing him away, doing things as extravagant as travelling the galaxies together or as ordinary as playing football, and Jarvis...

"I look forward to it, Loki. Queen to G4. Queen takes Knight."

...Jarvis would say things like that, despite both of them knowing he would never willingly leave his master for anything in the universe. Jarvis truly loved Stark, and genuinely enjoyed serving and taking care of him. And it was clear, from what he had seen, that Stark loved Jarvis right back.

Sometimes, Loki wondered what it would feel like, to have a master so besotted with him. Odin had never looked at him twice, not even after selling his body to an ambassador to help a treaty along, and Thanos... Well. Better not think about him at all.

"Queen to G6," Loki murmured quietly, munching on another bite and lost in thought, and then realised what he had just done. His jaw dropped a little. "... Checkmate?" he asked, unsure.

Silence. Then, "Indeed, Loki, it is so. Congratulations." Jarvis sounded strange.

Loki dropped his fork, blinking. He couldn't quite believe it. He ran over the moves in his mind and realised that yes, he had just beat Jarvis at chess, after months of trying. It felt... underwhelming. "Oh." He retrieved his fork and continued eating in silence, not quite knowing what to say.

"Another game?" Jarvis offered.

That earned him a nod. "Yes, let us play again. And do not go easy on me this time." For really, that was the only explanation.

* * *

Three days later, Stark was the only one left in the tower, so Loki prepared him dinner and took it down to the lab for him. He usually did that, but only for him. Maybe Jarvis' fondness for the man had rubbed off on Loki, maybe it was the man's natural charm, but Loki often found himself going out of his way to please him.

For no reason at all. It wasn't like Stark gave him anything in exchange except odd looks.

At any rate, there Loki was, about to step into the workshop with a tray laden with food, when he heard a muffled, "Don't come in yet!" from inside.

He rolled his eyes and put the tray on the ground, sitting down. The first time he had come, Stark had made him wait about half an hour, and Loki had become so annoyed at having to stand holding the tray laden with food right in front of his face without eating it that he had magicked some chilli extract into all of Stark's alcoholic beverages. The mortal had not been pleased at all; his date that night, even less.

He'd made Stark a sandwich, this time. It was the only way the man would eat, for he didn't want to stop working to do so, and thus needed at least one hand free. Loki had also left the Coke in the its bottle so that the man could chug it whenever he wanted without getting motor grease on a glass. It was more for Loki's convenience than anything else, really.

After waiting five minutes, Loki kicked the door of the elevator with his heel a couple times, making a loud noise.

"Yeah, okay, come in now," he heard from inside, and Jarvis opened the door for him.

The place was a disaster. There was oil everywhere, pieces were strewn about, and Stark was a sweaty, grease-covered mess standing in the middle of it. Loki arched an eyebrow, looking around, but didn't comment.

"Your lunch, _Master_. Steak sandwich with cheese, lettuce and tomato. And Coke." He held the tray in front of himself patiently.

Stark wiped his hands relatively clean on a cloth, leaving it streaked with black, and sat down on a stool in front of a table. He swept it with his hand, sending all the bolts and nuts crashing to the floor, and patted the surface, grinning. "Awesome, your sandwiches are the best."

Loki preened at the praise —Stark always gave it freely—and tried not to let a small smile show on his face as he stepped forward and set the tray down in front of him. He didn't think he quite succeeded, because Stark looked at him knowingly before turning his eyes down to the food.

He unfolded the paper napkin Loki had included and carefully wrapped it around the sandwich so as not to touch it with his dirty hand, and took a huge bite out of it.

"Jarvis, bring up schematics for the current process," he demanded with his mouth full, sending bits of half-chewed bread everywhere.

Jarvis did, in a fancy display of lights and Stark worked on whatever it was, taking bits of light away, modifying some already existing, while chomping on his dinner like it was a chore.

Having completed the cleaning for the day, and therefore lacking anything else to do, Loki was still there, watching and wondering, not for the first time, if the mortal was putting on a show on purpose because Loki would watch, or if he was always this showy even in private. But he was curious about one thing, though.

Invisible, incorporeal spirits were old things, especially in a magically poor plane like the one Midgard existed in. They were created before the matter in a planet even coalesced and cooled down enough to allow material life, and were usually little more than migrating consciousnesses, but over the course of eons could develop sentience and feelings. Soul. But the thing was, they were old magic. Having been there since with birth of the planet, they knew it and its energies like no other, and could thus manipulate them to their will. They weren't weak, not at all.

How, then, had Stark managed to trap and enslave one? And then, how had he managed to teach it the artificial ways of technology?

Loki wanted to ask. He wanted to know exactly what kind of formidable mind he was up against.

Stark nudged him in the stomach with the butt off his soft drink. "Come on, Pandora, what's eating you?" He opened the bottle and took a swig.

Loki _had known_ Pandora—he had talked her into opening the cursed amphora, after all—so he got the reference right away.

"Nothing," he shrugged. Why not tell him? "I was just wondering how exactly you managed to enslave a powerful spirit like Jarvis and strip him of his powers."

Stark choked on the Coke he had been drinking, spraying it through his nose. His face was very red as he sputtered and coughed—

_Don't allow harm to come to us._

—and instantly Loki came to his aid, slapping his back softly until the man raised a hand, palm facing Loki, to tell him to stop. He grabbed the other napkin and held it over his face, drying the liquid that was still dribbling out.

"Apologies, Master," Loki lied, very entertained by the mortal's reaction despite the sudden onset of a punishment headache. "Was it something I said?" He rubbed his back comfortingly.

"You asshole," Stark managed, voice short and wheezy, and slapped his hand away. "You did that on purpose."

"I did not!" Loki complained in mock indignation, grinning. "You did tell me to ask, after all, Master."

The mortal stared at him, and hurried to wipe a stray brown droplet that dribbled out of his nostril, still watching him. "You _meant_ that!" he cried, incredulity in his voice, and then bent double, howling in laughter.

Loki waited him out, but when it seemed he had calmed down, one look at Loki's impassive face sent him into another fit, and then again. Finally, Stark's laughter died down, though he still had a wide grin painted on his face.

"Are you done, _Master_?" Loki asked in a bored tone, checking his fingernails for dirt pointedly.

"Ha, almost. So, let me get this straight." The man waved his hands in the air as though dissipating fog. "You, a Viking god from outer space, think that Jarvis, my AI, is a... what? A centuries old—"

"Eons," interrupted Loki, miffed.

"—eons, yeah, why not. Eons old spirit with superpowers that I somehow managed to trick into serving me?" he finished, looking askance at Loki.

Loki nodded. "That is so, Master."

Stark started laughing again helplessly, digging his thumb and index finger into his closed eyelids, covering his face with his hand. "Jarvis, ha-ha, did you tell him that? Because I don't think, heh, I programmed you for conning Loki here." He snorted, dissolving into silent laughter.

"No, Sir, I did not." Jarvis answered, sounding amused, and Loki felt wrongfooted. "He must have come up with that on his own. I had no idea he held me in such high regard." He sounded sarcastic, and Stark snorted at that, grinning.

Loki felt stricken. They were laughing at him, at his ignorance. Even Jarvis, whom he had thought of as a friend. Had Jarvis been telling Stark everything Loki had been up to, as well? Had they laughed together at his misery, behind his back? At his fall from grace that he had thought a secret?

"Loki."

Stark's voice calling him snapped him out of his thoughts and he blinked, feeling hollow. "Master," he answered, and this time he meant it. Stark had played him for a fool, yet again. No matter what Loki did, Stark would find out. Stark controlled every aspect of his life: where and if he slept, what he eat or didn't eat, even his grooming – everything had been on purpose, after all.

If Stark already knew, then there was nothing to try to keep hidden. His shame was there for Stark to see, and he had fallen so, _so_ low already, what further shame could submitting fully to him and begging for food and his own room bring?

He felt lost.

"Loki, hey," Stark snapped his fingers in front of Loki's face, making him flinch at the sudden movement and noise. "Hey, Earth to Loki, you still there?"

Loki nodded, averting his gaze, keeping his head low. "I'm still here, Master. Is there anything you wish from me?"

"What? No, Loki. I was gonna—lemme just explain here, okay?" Loki nodded dumbly, still reeling. "Jarvis is my AI—that's artificial intelligence, in case you don't know—and I programmed him. He's not a spirit, he's—em, a construct, I guess, that I made to assist me and run the house. Does that make sense?"

A construct. Oh. Not a slave. Not a higher power that Stark had tricked into servitude like Loki. Just something he had made with his own two hands out of wiring and electricity, and which served him because it knew no different. Jarvis probably would know what to do with himself if Stark set him free.

So Loki truly was the only being in the universe pathetic enough to get caught like this.

He felt ill.

"I see," he said for Stark's benefit. "May I retire?"

"Um, are you alright? You look pale."

He felt pale, too, with black spots dancing before his eyes and ringing in his ears. "No, I don't think so, Master." He pitched forward, unable to keep his balance, and Stark surged to catch him and helped him onto the floor, complaining about his weight.

When he let go, Loki grabbed his hand in his clutches.

"Loki?"

"Did you order him to?" Loki needed to know. "Did you order him to befriend me, to tell you what he learnt about me?" Or had Jarvis become his friend out of its – _hi_ s own volition.

Stark shook his head. "No, I didn't. Jarvis, buddy, you replaced me with a fallen god?" he joked, hand rubbing circles into Loki's shoulder absentmindedly.

"Of course not, Sir, I would never," Jarvis answered playfully.

Loki relaxed into the touch, using it to ground himself, and he forced his breathing to slow down, calming his running mind.

His secrets were safe. For now, at least.

Stark was not a cunning, mastermind manipulator.

He sat up straight and regarded the mortal crouched over him. "So, you made Jarvis from nothing, Master?"

Stark nodded, and started explaining, going on about circuitry and informatics and robotics and neural networks simulators and on and on and on, while Loki listened to him, lost in his enthusiasm, in his knowledge. Maybe sleeping with Stark wouldn't be so bad, after all. It wasn't like the man was repulsive, when he kept his mouth shut, and he was far from stupid, or weak, if the stories he had read on the internet about him and Afghanistan were true.

Really, compared to Timothy, Anthony Stark was a prize to be kept close.

And Loki would keep him close indeed.

* * *

Loki put his plan into action that same night.

Stark was in his shower, cleaning off the grime and grease of the day spent in the workshop. Loki took advantage of that and snuck into his room, changing his clothes with magic to a silken dressing robe that reached his ankles and was tied very loosely at his midsection, his chest exposed by the open fold of the two front panels. He had also taken the time to shave his leg and arm and armpit hair, what little he had had, in an effort to be extra appealing to the man.

He waited for him standing by the edge of the enormous bed, unable to sit down or lounge on it to display himself to maximum appeal. He would simply have to trust his skills at seduction.

He heard the shower stop and his heart picked up in anticipation. Would he be successful? Would Stark kick him out?

"Jarvis, dim the lights, please," he asked the construct, and Jarvis did as requested without answering, knowing not to clue Stark in on Loki's presence.

The man in question emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, the glowing device in his chest casting a beam of light in it before it faded. He had a towel tight around his hips and another across his shoulders, catching stray droplets of water that dripped down from his drenched hair. The sheen of water gleamed in the low light, highlighting every curve of his body: his hipbones, his lean but not over toned muscles, the hollows in his clavicles...

Loki smirked. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. Stark wasn't nearly as repellent as Timothy, and if he could manage a convincing act for him with little effort, then doing it for Stark would be easy as pie.

Stark let go of the towel around his waist to rub the smaller towel into his hair. He still hadn't noticed Loki, apparently, but it was quite alright with the enslaved god.

"Good evening, Master," he greeted, not a hint of sarcasm to be found in his voice.

Startled, Stark dropped the small towel and turned to look at him. A few seconds passed in silence before he spoke. "So, um, care to explain what you're doing here? 'Cause I kinda _really_ doubt it means what I think it means."

Loki smiled at him, taking that as his cue to walk closer. "Really, Master? And what is that, hm?" He stopped about two feet away from Stark and tilted his head in a practised move. His long hair shifted like a curtain, exposing his neck further.

He could see Stark swallow thickly. "That I'm so sexy even gods want to get it on with me?" he asked, and Loki felt his eyes on his chest, on display thanks to the wide collar.

"Then you are right, Master," he answered, taking a hand to the centre of his chest and sliding his middle finger slowly up and down, caressing his skin. Stark's gaze, suddenly heavy with desire, made his skin tingle.

But Stark snorted and turned away, bending to retrieve his fallen towel. Then he walked away from Loki to his dresser, where he, uncaring of his nudity, untucked the bigger towel from his waist and started drying off. He applied some deodorant and combed his still wet hair with his hands.

Loki had guessed it wouldn't be as easy as that. He _hadn't_ guessed Stark would laugh at his offer and ignore him. He narrowed his eyes, indignant. ' _You have ignored me enough already_ ,' he thought furiously, ' _you will not ignore me any longer._ '

But he swallowed his burning anger, or at least hid it extremely well so Stark wouldn't notice it, and approached preening man from behind. Stark didn't react, though Loki was sure he could see him reflected in the mirror, not even when Loki rested his hands on his shoulders, so Loki pressed closer, his now feminine form flush against Stark's back.

Oh, how the man's eyes widened as he caught Loki's in the mirror!

"I wouldn't dismiss the shape-shifting god in your bedroom if, I were you," Loki purred into his master's ear, not quite nuzzling it. "Let's just reconsider, yes?"

But Stark was made from tougher stuff than that, even if his prick certainly seemed interested, and he broke out of Loki's hold to walk away. "Turn back!" he barked, and, startled, Loki did. "What is your game, huh? What do you want?" He sat on his bed, cross-legged, and Loki had to admire his confidence at casual nudity. He pointed at Loki accusingly. "And tell me the truth!"

Loki looked away, biting his lip, then back at him. "I want to sleep with you," he answered, honesty dragged from him against his will, but he had the same practice at telling truths as he had at telling lies. In his lips, both were equally effective.

"Liar, liar, pants on fire," Stark deadpanned, arms crossed over his chest. "Your aim is not sex." He arched an eyebrow, daring Loki to disagree.

But he had made two crucial mistakes: he had not asked a question for Loki to answer and he had sat on the edge of the bed.

Stark didn't know it, but if he had sat in the middle of the bed rather than its edge, he would have been completely safe, for the order that prohibited Loki from even touching furniture was still standing.

Loki smiled predatorily and approached him, swaying his hips. He may not have nearly as much meat on him for it to have the full effect, but he saw Stark's eyes drawn to him nonetheless. Tired of standing, he allowed himself to fall gracefully to his knees, and raised his hands to lay them on Stark's splayed knees. He tilted his head back to look him in the eye, seemingly waiting with all the patience in the world.

"Shall I beg it of you, Master?" he asked softly, his hands caressing small circles on Stark's knees. "I can beg if that is what you want." He wouldn't have, a month ago, not if his life depended on it. But he had little to no pride left in him any longer. Not after Odin, not after Thanos, and certainly not after getting to his knees and sucking a lowly mortal's cock in exchange for sustenance.

Stark was still staring warily at him, but he seemed interested. "No, don't beg, I don't think you can pull it off," he said acidly, but uncurled his legs all the same and shifted his arse closer to the edge of the bed, encasing Loki with his knees. "You gonna suck me? I admit, I'm curious about why exactly they call you 'silver tongue'," he smirked, as though it wasn't an innuendo that was made either by Loki or his partner every single time he sucked a new cock.

Loki gave him a very fake smile, but scooted closer on his knees all the same. If this would grant him his request to sleep on Stark's bed... Well, then, what was he waiting for? He rested his hands on Stark's knees and leaned forward, closing his eyes in shame that he had to resort to such methods, and placed a wet kiss on the tip of Stark's dick.

Stark's hands dug into his hair, guiding Loki's head over his cock. Loki obeyed the silent orders, seeking to please him enough that he would want to take Loki, and mouthed along the side of the shaft, sucking softly as he went, before licking a stripe back to the bulbous head with the flat of his tongue.

He heard Stark sigh in pleasure and, encouraged, drew the head into his mouth, sucking and licking it in a complicated manoeuvre he had learnt from a—arguably, _the_ —elfish courtesan back in his youth. He managed to extract a soft "Damn!" and counted it as a victory, glancing briefly up at Stark and seeing his flushed face, slack jaw and blown pupils boring straight into the place when Loki's slips were stretched around his cock.

Encouraged, he slid his hands over the soft flesh of the inside of Stark's thighs to his hips, holding them loosely, and used that hold to centre himself as he swooped down and took Stark's cock to the hilt, swallowing around the head—Stark screamed—when it reached the back of his throat, and keep himself there, swallowing, allowing the contractions of his throat to both soothe the need for friction and enflame his arousal.

The hands fisted in his hair pulled him back until the cock was halfway out before pulling him back on, and Loki closed his eyes and surrendered, bobbing his head along with the rhythm Stark had set, making sure to swallow when the cockhead breached his throat and to lick around it, sucking hard, when it seemed it was about to leave his mouth.

But then Stark pulled him off for good, breathing hard, and held his head barely millimetres away from his cock. "Hah," he panted, "they weren't kidding. Silvertongue indeed. Ha-ha." He untangled his hand from Loki's hair and allowed his upper body to drop back, lying flat on the bed. "Okay, you win. Get up here," he patted the space next to him in a clear invitation.

A direct order. A _beautiful_ direct order.

Loki could barely believe it had worked, and he clambered onto the bed—his left knee had fallen asleep—gingerly out of old habit. He sat sideways on the spot Stark had patted, leaning on one arm to perfectly display the curve of his narrow waist, looking down at him, and played with Stark's chest hair with his other hand, not daring to touch the glowing device.

"How does my master want me?" he asked, voice dripping seduction, stretching out his arm under him, dropping him even lower. "Does he want my mouth or my ass tonight? Does he wish me to ride him or does he wish to take me on my knees?"

Stark laid an arm over his eyes, whining. "Fuck, Loki, how are you even real?" he wondered out loud, and then turned on his side, scooting to leave room between them. Then he grabbed Loki's shoulder and pulled him forward, making him roll face-down onto the bed, and palmed his arse greedily through the silky robe. "A bit skinny for my taste, but you'll do nicely," he slapped it, and Loki was so thin and tense it barely jiggled. "Yes, very nicely," he breathed.

Turning his face away, Loki used the hands at his side to hitch the robe up his legs, finally bunching it over the swell of his skinny arse, presenting it to Stark. His cheeks burned with shame as he held a buttock in each hand and spread them apart temptingly – like a whore showcasing her wares on a street corner, only with less clothing.

Stark took the bait and touched the tip of his index finger to his quivering arsehole, massaging it. Loki's breathing hitched at the touch, though whether it was because he was nervous and thus easily startled or because it had been unexpectedly gentle and curious, he didn't know. His hands let his buttocks go, and they closed around Stark's finger, warmed by its presence in the places they touched.

"If you wish to take me now, Master, I prepared myself earlier in anticipation." A bold-faced lie, but Loki's body was resilient and he had magic to lubricate himself with. Same thing.

"Fuck yes," Stark whispered, moving to straddle Loki's thighs. Then he guided the tip of his cock to Loki's entrance. "Allow me to fuck you like no one else had before," he said brokenly before pushing in.

It was painful and Loki got even tenser, but Stark had given an order, and he couldn't help but obey it. The cockhead breached the rings of muscle and he twitched, moaning weakly at the uncomfortable sensation. He added lubricant along his inner walls to make the passage easier, and it worked: Stark buried himself in to the hilt, his balls pressing against the fold where Loki's legs became his butt, and leaned forward on his arms, bracing his hands on Loki's shoulders, pushing him down.

"Louder. Let me hear you," Stark murmured close to Loki's ear, before pressing his lips to the knob at the nape of Loki's neck and kissing there.

Stark was a good bed partner—Loki could see that, objectively—willing to share pleasure instead of just taking it. Only it was very tough for Loki to appreciate that right that moment when he started moving, pistoning in and out of Loki slowly at first. Loki could tell the man was looking for his sweet spot, changing angles and depth and force, until he struck it and Loki let out a small, discomfited moan and shuddered.

He wasn't turned on, not yet, and stimulation to that area was, really, the last thing he needed at the moment. But this wasn't about him getting pleasure out of the arrangement, it was about Stark ending up so woozy and sleepy that he would forget to kick Loki out afterwards like he did with his hook-ups.

Loki played up his noises of discomfort to sound like those of pleasure, making a performance of it. Stark picked up his rhythm when Loki's cries got louder, thrusting evenly, hitting the spot where he believed Loki's prostate to be almost every time. Loki kept adding lubrication and whimpering and mumbling incoherently, waiting for the whole thing to end.

But Stark had more stamina that Loki had credited him with, even though he was grunting and gasping for breath with every thrust.

' _Time to up the ante,_ ' Loki thought, smirking wryly, and started tilting his hips into Stark's when they rocked together and clenching his arse when they rocked apart. The change in angle meant that Stark's cock now did brush against Loki's sweet spot, and though it was still a bit uncomfortable, it was slowly turning into a pleasurable sensation.

Soon, Loki's hips were meeting the thrusts on their own volition, Loki's broken moans and whimpers becoming real, but then Stark was coming, his hips losing their rhythm, and he thrust into Loki once, twice more and then spent his seed in him, before dropping like a dead weight – to the side, he really _was_ considerate.

The man rolled over to his back and gasped for breath, while Loki shifted so that he was again covered in the robe and he lay on his side in a foetal position, back facing Stark. He waited, tense, for the man to gather his wits and say something scathing about Loki's lofty aspirations, but, as time passed, the man's breathing shifted from laboured to relaxed to resting, and Loki knew he was asleep.

Success.

"Jarvis, would you turn down the lights?" he asked softly. "Slowly, please, we do not want him to wake."

Jarvis did so, stretching out the darkening of the lights to 0% about three minutes.

"Thanks," Loki whispered, smiling, and cleaned his arse and thighs of Stark's spend with magic, before luxuriating in the enormity of the bed, the softness of the sheets and the fluffiness of the pillow, something he had gone without for months now, and fell asleep soon.

Although, unused to either sleep or physical contact as he was, he woke up many times during the night, and found Stark entangled around him each time. It seemed the man's sleeping body sought comfort proportionately to how much his waking body avoided it... Loki went back to sleep after disentangling them and pushing the man until he rolled over about three times.

He finally gave up on sleep at about six—feeling better rested than he had in months, despite everything— and stole into Stark's shower to wash away the sweat from the night before, as well as whatever of Stark's scent had managed to rub off on him. It was still dark outside, what with it being a winter morning, so he was confident that Stark would wake just yet.

Loki turned on the cold water and let his robe fall to a pool on the floor before stepping inside. Stark's rooms were well heated, unlike the kitchen or the gym showers, so it wasn't as uncomfortable to get under the spray. In fact, it was quite refreshing after the sweltering heat of sleeping with another body entwined with his.

His sensitive hearing picked up unexpected noise while he was massaging shampoo into his hair and he wiped the foam from his face before turning towards the source.

Stark, completely naked, was taking a piss and rubbing his eyes with his free hand, yawning a bit. "Why are you up so early?" he complained, not even looking at Loki.

_Tell me the truth._

"I woke and couldn't fall asleep again," Loki answered truthfully, still compelled to do it from Stark's order. He got under the spray to rinse the shampoo off, trying to ignore the feeling of Stark's eyes on him.

"You look like a model, you know?" The man asked. Loki turned his head to look at him and spotted the mortal sitting on the toilet, lid down, brushing his teeth and scratching his balls. "And by 'model' I meant anorexic. 'Sup with that?"

There was no conditioner in Stark's shower, so Loki turned the water off, wringed his hair and stepped out into the floormat. "Romanov restricted me from eating certain things in punishment and forgot to cancel that restriction," he answered, standing straight, seemingly unashamed of his nudity, but in truth very self-conscious of his concave stomach, his sickly pale skin and his protruding bones. He raised the temperature of his skin in a flash and the water evaporated off him in a cloud of steam, leaving his skin dry.

Stark snorted and some of the white foam escaped his mouth, dripping down his chin. He got up to the sink and rinsed his mouth. "What, she told you to go to bed without desert and you went into a hunger strike instead?"

' _If only._ ' Loki answered with a fake smile, letting him believe what he wanted, and retrieved his silk robe from the floor, sliding it on and tying it around his hips. It highlighted his broad shoulders and narrow hips while hiding exactly how unhealthily thin he was, which was the whole reason he had gone with it to begin with.

They stood in silence for a moment, watching each other.

"Is there anything in particular you want for breakfast, _Master_?" Loki enquired.

"Nah, I think I'll go back to sleep for another hour or two if I can manage. I'll find you later." Stark pushed past him to leave the bathroom, only to stop short by the door, looking as though he had just remembered something. "Say, I noticed there was no steam? You don't like hot water?"

Loki did, _so much_. "It gives me headaches when I use it," he shrugged with casualness he didn't feel, gliding around Stark to leave the room, only to be stopped by a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head to face the man.

"Are you regretting last night already?" the mortal asked, voice quiet, squeezing Loki's shoulder.

Loki smiled, unable to help it. Stark had played right into his hands last night, at it had begun to feel pleasurable by the end, even if he hadn't himself achieved orgasm. "Of course not. Are you, Master?"

Stark blinked at him. "No, not at all. It's just, you seemed..." he opened and closed his mouth several times, apparently struggling to find the words. "Never mind."

Resting a hand on Stark's, Loki squeezed it reassuringly. "Then, same time tonight?"

Stark's eyes widened and he barked out a laugh. "It was true! Even gods can't get enough of me!" he exclaimed, pumping his fist in celebration.

"Don't be silly," Loki said in a clearly teasing tone, "what I can't get enough of is your bed. You just come with the package." He winked playfully, knowing Stark would never hear exactly how true that statement was.

Stark grinned and patted Loki's shoulder. "Yep, you win this round. Now get the hell out, I wanna sleep."

' _Yes, me too,_ ' Loki thought, but didn't let it show outwardly, instead smirking knowingly and inclining his head. "Tell Jarvis what you want for breakfast. I'll bring it here if you so wish, Master."

He left, incredibly cheerful about the night to come.

Maybe, if he made sure to be turned on when Stark started fucking him, he would be able to derive satisfaction from it as well.

* * *

Loki slept in Stark's bed every night for the rest of the week, and he allowed the mortal use of his body in exchange. He had been right: stretching himself manually and stroking his prick to hardness beforehand greatly enhanced the experience, and Stark was a very considerate lover, almost wasting more time on Loki than he used on himself.

Loki would have been content to stay in the same position, but Stark seemed to find that boring, and took Loki on his back with his legs around Stark's waist, on his side, and even rode him once, to Loki's surprise. The mortal really had no shame, penetrating himself on Loki's hard cock like a wanton woman, unselfconsciously enjoying himself despite the humiliating position his body seemed to like.

The god knew what it was to have a body with shameful desires; he had had his share of fantasies of being penetrated in his youth and been incredibly ashamed and secretive about them, before coming to terms with his ergi. Still, it had taken him a lot of time to be able to admit to himself he found pleasure in being owned and humiliated like that, and only in recent history he had started seeking out partners to do it instead of it being a chore he did in service of Asgard.

It was a thing of beauty, Stark fucking himself on Loki's dick, pleasure clear in the lines of his face, the slackness in his jaw, the tension in his muscles and the flush of his skin. Loki didn't think he would forget the sight in a hurry, though he wondered if he managed to look half as appealing when he himself was being fucked.

It was something to investigate.

But today was the day when the Avengers would start trickling into their lives again one by one, and he wasn't sure Stark would keep wanting him in his bed. Still, reluctant to leave, he woke the mortal up by sticking a finger up his arse and massaging his prostate, taking Stark's cock into his mouth to consume the resulting fluid, and then proceeded to suck his brain out through his cock.

The man woke up with a scream of pleasure, his hand petting Loki's hair almost affectionately as he lapped at his spent cock. "That was—that was... Ah," he threw his arm over his eyes and tried to catch his breath.

"Amazing? Mind-blowing? Wonderful?" Loki supplied helpfully, sliding up Stark's body and licking a broad stripe along his chest on the way.

Stark laughed, carefree. "Thinking highly of yourself today, huh?" he panted, taking his arm from his face and stretching it out on his side in invitation.

Loki dropped sideways, facing Stark, pillowing his head on the mortal's sweaty shoulder. He ran his finger in a circle around the man's far nipple. "Did I rock your world, Master?" he asked teasingly, and moved his head to kiss the other nipple, sucking it briefly into the tight circle of his lips, before laying his head back down and raising a leg, resting it across Stark's hips.

Bending his arm at the elbow, the mortal sunk his hand in Loki's hair and ran his fingers through it softly. "That, you did," he answered quietly, and Loki could head the smile in his voice. Then the man rolled onto his side to face Loki and curled his other arm around him, enveloping him in what seemed to be hug.

Loki knew better than to fight it. These last days with Stark had been filled with casual touching, hugs, kisses, caresses, and he was sure that, should he pull away, things would return to their previous state, where Stark either ignored him and avoided him or kicked him awake and slapped him with his tablet. He also didn't want to pull away, having developed a measure of affection for Stark as well, though he was sure it was due to Jarvis singing his praises.

He settled for wrapping his arm around the man as well, holding him closer and nuzzling his neck.

Stark kissed him.

Loki's eyes flew wide open and he pulled back, blushing.

Stark seemed surprised as well, and they blinked at each other for some time. "I know you do kisses in Asgard," he said at last, slowly. "I've seen Thor and Jane making out like teenagers enough times. So, what gives?"

_Tell me the truth._

"I was not expecting it," Loki answered, heart still hammering, and he moved his hand to cup Stark's half-bearded, half-smooth jaw. Holding him still, he hesitantly laid his lips on Stark's, and they were soft and pliant under him, though the goatee prickled his face. He closed his eyes and kissed Stark softly, chastely, and then he pulled away to look him in the eye.

The wrinkles at the corners were deeper with Stark's amusement, but the man refrained from commenting on Loki's kiss, miraculously. Instead, he closed his eyes and leaned forward to return the kiss, just as chastely, only he lingered there for a few more seconds. He was smiling when he pulled back, and Loki knew he was being made fun of.

"Yes, very funny, let's make fun of Loki," he said angrily, pulling away, but he was only acting. As soon as Stark couldn't see his face, he broke into a smile.

It had been a long time since he had last shared this kind of casual affection with anyone.

At any rate, he sat up, turned to put his feet on the ground and stretched. Stark sat as well—he could feel the movements through the mattress—and reached out and ran a finger up his knobbly spine, before pulling on Loki's hair to tilt his head back. He kissed Loki over his shoulder, more deeply this time, and stroked the skin right over his shoulder blade before letting him go.

Loki did, standing up and summoning his clothes to him with a wave of his hand. "Breakfast, Master?" he asked, halfway out the door. By now, 'Master' registered in his brain a nickname for Stark instead of his title, and Loki no longer said it sarcastically.

Stark had curled up hugging Loki's pillow to his chest, and was now staring at him between slow blinks, saying nothing, apparently lost in thought.

Shrugging, Loki left. He had beds to make for the Avengers who would be soon returning.

* * *

 

Stark spent the morning in his lab, not even seeing Loki when he came down with food for him. Loki left it there for him to find and resumed his chores. Stark must have been working on some important project if he didn't even care for one of Loki's—in his own words—worthy-of-gods steak sandwiches. It looked like he would be there all day.

Which, excellent. Loki needed new clothes.

Midwinter in New York was not pleasant, at least not in his current body. Feeling the cold was a small price to pay to be truly in the shape of Aesir instead of a Jötun wearing a glamour to look like one, and having the glamour break every time he touches something colder than ice.

He had not been given clothes in all the time he had been here, merely changing his only change of clothes, the ones given to him in Asgard for his trial, with magic again and again to look different, after Banner had commented offhandedly that he had looked ragged and unkempt as his clothes got more threadbare, like he belonged in some poor place in Africa Loki didn't care to remember. He could only spread and re-use matter so much—he couldn't make himself a jacket, for example, or a woolly sweater—and after months of constant change, the matter was falling apart at both the literal and the figurative seams.

Loki grabbed the small fortune he had collected by keeping the change when he went grocery shopping—Loki had become very good at spotting bargains and using coupons, so as to have extra money to steal—and made a doppelganger of himself, since he wasn't technically allowed to leave the Tower unless it was to go shopping for groceries.

He instructed his double on what to do and how and told Jarvis he was going and that his clone could contact him if needed, before jumping from the balcony and flying down as a hawk.

On the way down, he spotted a racoon, of all things, in a nearby alley—jackpot!—and turned into something a bit bigger, an eagle, to catch it. He hid behind the skip to eat it, not wanting to alarm people by letting them see a national symbol feasting on the bloody corpse of a racoon.

Lunch done, he took the time to look around for clothing stores in his spending range. He had to look a long while, considering Stark Tower was in the middle of the richest area of the city, and soon it became three in the afternoon and he had found nothing.

Sighing, he went to a park to enjoy the weak sunlight, at least, and ended up sitting next to a human playing music by sliding a bow on a small string instrument tucked under his chin. The music was pleasant, and he saw the man was collecting money for sharing it, so he dropped a tenner in what looked to be the instrument's case.

The player stopped and looked at him sharply, before asking if he had any requests. Loki shrugged, answering he didn't know much about music, and impress him. The man smirked at the challenge and started playing a hauntingly beautiful melody, sharp a dangerous, full of complicated-looking manoeuvres with his fingers to reach the notes. At some points, the movements were so fast it sounded like more than one violin was playing. He attracted quite a crowd, and they filmed him with their mobiles or cameras.

"It's called the Devil's Thrill, by Giuseppe Tartani," the man told him afterwards, when the performance was over and the crowd had dissipated. "I'm Siegerson, by the way." Contrary to human custom, the man didn't offer a hand to shake, stead counting the money in the case. It was quite a lot now.

"Loki. You deserve more that that," Loki commented, but the man grinned and handed him back his ten dollars. "No, keep it."

Siegerson stared at him shrewdly with clear blue eyes, looking him up and down. "You need it. You were out to buy new clothes, weren't you?"

Loki took the note hesitantly. "I was. How did you know?"

"I didn't, I deduced it." He looked at Loki warily, as though expecting him to challenge him.

But Loki nodded. Siegerson must be quite smart to have noticed the few hints of unravelling threads and frayed borders. And he probably had noticed how thin Loki was, and assumed he wasn't feeding properly because of lack of funds.

They talked a bit, conversing about beauty, poverty and the human condition—what could he say, the violinist had been an interesting person—before Siegerson, on some signal Loki didn't catch, decided to leave.

"They caught me on camera," he said as explanation. "I thought it would be longer before they uploaded it to the internet, but it seems I calculated wrong." He looked very upset at that. "In any case, you'll want to go to a thrift store to buy your new wardrobe." He pulled out a pen and a napkin and wrote down some addresses he got from his mobile.

Then he gave it to Loki and left, telling to come visit when he was free again.

Loki took it to mean 'free from slavery' because it was obvious, to him, the man would leave town soon.

The napkin contained six addresses, five thrift stores and one Salvation Army place. Loki went to all of them and ended up with quite the treasure.

Some old suits that he could alter with magic, jeans, cotton shirts, t-shirts, a thick jacket that was comfortable enough to wear inside as well, socks, underwear, three pairs of shoes, a woolly cap, many jumpers and scarves... The list went on and on. He also got himself a couple blankets and a pillow for when the he had to go back to sleeping in the kitchen, as well as a nice, sturdy travel bag to store everything in. He was in such a good mood that he even bought, with the last of his money, a teddy bear for a boy whose mum hadn't enough money to get it, saying that every child should have something soft to cuddle when the woman went to thank him.

Loki knew his doppelganger wouldn't last much longer, so he pocketed his purchases in the same place he stored the Casket of Ancient Winters and turned back into a hawk. He flew almost straight back to the Tower—allowing some time to hunt down and swallow two nice rats—and landed in the balcony. After making sure no one would see him, he transformed back into himself.

He put on airs of knowing exactly what he was doing in Stark's balcony in case anyone came out and saw him and walked into the living room.

"Welcome back, Loki," Jarvis said, sounding pleased to see him.

"Evening, Jarvis. Did Stark notice me gone?" he asked, looking around the living room for things to tidy up. It seemed clean – Stark was probably still in his lab.

"Not to my knowledge," the construct answered humbly, which Loki found hilarious, because Jarvis knew _everything_ that went on inside the Tower. "Your doppelganger is in Mr Stark's room, collecting the dirty laundry, as you told it to."

"Thank you, I'll go take his place now. We can play chess when I'm done?" he offered, walking into Stark's rooms.

Jarvis hummed pensively, and Loki marvelled once again at Stark's brain, to be able to create such an interesting and faceted construct with only electricity, and yet be so stupid as to wear the only thing keeping him alive uncovered and glowing like a beacon, or painting his armour red and gold.

"Maybe..." he hesitated. But then, Jarvis had nothing to fear from Loki, so he continued, "I was thinking we could try Go, like you asked. I've watched some videos and I think I have some idea."

Jarvis had initially rejected the offer because Go was too complex to play like a computer, thinking all the possibilities; Go, according to an article about why professional players could still beat computers at it, wasn't a game for logical minds only: it was a game for those with spirit. Jarvis had feared he wasn't sentient enough to play it, which Loki found endearing.

"Good. Remind me after the masters come back, I'm probably going to be fuming at them for making too big of a mess and I'll need the distraction."

Loki found his double hanging shirts into the closet and stepped into the space it occupied, letting it vanish and gaining its memories of the past few hours – nothing remarkable. He finished hanging Stark's clean shirts and walked into the bathroom, looking for the hamper.

Stark was there, against all predictions, taking a bubble bath and looking at his tablet. Curses. Loki tried to back out silently, but the man must have felt the draft, for he turned around and spotted Loki. He smiled.

"Ah, Cinderella!" the moron exclaimed jovially, "since you're here and all, wash my back." He extended his hand at Loki, holding a foamy sponge, a challenge in the quirk of his eyebrow.

Loki blinked at him. Stark had been so wrapped in his work earlier that he hadn't even have time to eat – and now he was wasting his precious time by taking a bubble bath? But orders were orders. "Very well, Master, lean forward," he sighed as he approached the man, rolling up his sleeves.

Stark had the gall to look surprised, his hand hanging limp in mid-air even after Loki had already grabbed the sponge and knelt on the floor by his side. "Wow. Didn't think you would do it."

Loki rolled his eyes and tossed the sponge into the air, catching it when it fell. "Orders are orders, _Master_ ," he said saucily and pushed Stark's chest forward, before starting to scrub at the man's skin harshly.

"Ouch, Loki, not so hard!" Stark hissed, and Loki rolled his eyes and accommodated him, washing circles into his skin. Stark let out a long breath of air and he relaxed into his upright knees. "There, like that," he murmured. Then, "A little to the left too, hm? Don't forget to clean there, don't want my back cleaned unevenly."

Loki snorted and moved as ordered. This man wasn't satisfied by anything, was he? He had a god at his beck and call and complained that Loki hadn't yet done the work he had already _said_ he would do, but berated him when he went too fast. "There is no pleasing you, Master, is there?" he commented almost idly as he finished up. "There, done."

He stood up to go, but Stark stopped him. "Ah-ah-ah, get back here! Forgot to ask if I want anything else!" He was curling his fingers in what was either 'come-hither' or 'gimme', Loki couldn't tell.

Loki rolled his eyes and knelt back down next to the bathtub. " _Anything else, Master?_ " he recited dutifully

Stark didn't look at him, but Loki could see the grin full of evil glee spread on his face. "Be a dear and wash my hair."

Grabbing the shampoo, Loki poured out a small amount. "Your hair isn't even wet, Master." The mortal dunked his head into the water, after rolling his eyes and making a big show of parroting Loki as though it had been Loki's idea in the first place. When he emerged, Loki rubbed the shampoo between his hands to spread it evenly and started washing Stark's hair.

He started quite roughly at first, but then the habit formed over the last days took over and he started using gentler, more careful motions, almost petting the man's head.

Stark sighed in pleasure, and Loki could see him visibly lose the tension in his muscles. Excellent. "You are quite good at this," the man commented idly while Loki massaged his scalp, closing his eyes. "Well, you had a rough start, but you can't be perfect all the time, unlike me."

Humming noncommittally, Loki tilted the man's head this way and that, getting the best angle to apply his caress, lulling the man into deeper relaxation. "I only need instruction, I am not stupid," he reminded Stark in a soft, low voice. He made it resonate deeply with soothing magic.

He kept on massaging and carding his fingers through the soapy hair. It was actually quite soothing to _him_ if not Stark, It was something he would never admit out loud, that he was only now beginning to admit to himself: being argr, he liked serving. He enjoyed making himself useful and being irreplaceable and seeing the Avenger's unguarded smiles when he did something nice without their notice.

So lost in reflection was he that he almost missed Stark's sudden sharp intake of air.

"So, you have to obey, like, _every_ order? No matter how stupid?" the man asked, bringing Loki back to reality.

Loki nodded, and then realised Stark couldn't see him. When he looked down to answer, he found Stark's eyes open and looking at him, though, so maybe he had seen, after all. "Every order. Even if it was made in anger or in jest. I thought Thor had explained, Master?" He stopped his ministrations and looked down with one eyebrow raised.

Stark pulled his head out of Loki's hands, sitting up, and turned to regard him. He looked a little shaken. Loki maintained the eye contact throughout whatever mental process the man was lost in, challenging him. But then the man looked away. "Um, leave then," he said at last, reclining back into his previous spot and using his folded arms behind his head as a pillow. "Go do whatever you were doing before I interrupted."

With one last sceptical glance, Loki stood up and gathered the dirty clothes from the hamper. "Shall I come to your bed tonight, Master?" he asked, and Stark flinched.

He waited a few seconds, thinking maybe Stark was deciding, but then Stark pointedly turned away from him and it became clear the man would not answer, so Loki left.

He would have paid to know what Stark was thinking so hard about, why he had suddenly decided Loki was beneath him.

But he had laundry to wash and dinner to make.

The first to arrive were Barton and Romanov, and they arrived just in time for dinner.

In an effort to keep the peace, Loki had cooked Barton's favourite, chicken casserole, and the man looked disbelievingly at him as soon as he set foot inside the common floor and smelled it.

Loki greeted him with a smile and a chilled beer. "Dinner is almost ready, Master," he said primly, the perfect picture of servility. "Please enjoy this drink and come to the table at your leisure."

Barton took the beer hesitantly, and looked at it and then at Loki, staring fixedly at him. "Did you poison this?"

Raising his eyebrows, Loki kept the smile frozen on his face. "Of course not. It wouldn't do to be harmed in your own home, would it, Master?" he retorted politely. "Particularly by this lowly slave," he added softly, for Barton's ears only, "who thinks killing you is a waste of effort, for you will die anyway in a few decades." He smiled pleasantly again.

To his surprise, Barton snorted and opened the beer, taking a swig from it. "Too true, man. Is that you chicken casserole I smell? 'Cause my mouth's watering already."

Then he stepped around Loki, stretching his arms, making a show of being unconcerned with Loki's presence. He went to the dining table, which Loki had already set, and took his seat, drinking his beer.

He looked exhausted.

"Do you need me to tend your wounds first, Master?" Loki asked pre-emptively, remembering the few times before when Barton had ordered him to, mainly when Romanov wasn't around to do it herself.

Barton looked surprised. "Um, no?" he answered. "Just got a couple scrapes and bruises, nothing too bad."

Loki approached slowly, having seen the ones on his exposed skin. There was an ugly one on the back of his shoulder, but Barton had Romanov to dress it tonight. "I will bring out dinner, then." He got a nod from Barton, and a pensive look.

The smell in the kitchen was overpowering. His nose could detect the savoury chicken, the perfect mix of spices and the saltiness of the sauce, and his mouth watered too. He hoped his masters would leave some on the plates for him to try, but didn't expect them to. He had cooked for five people, but Barton and Romanov usually ate about that amount after days of tasteless rations.

He served two plates, knowing Romanov couldn't be far behind, and carried them to the table. Barton perked up visibly as soon as he saw Loki with the food, and he grabbed his fork in anticipation.

Loki smiled and, because he could, he set down Romanov's plate first, before putting Barton's down in front of him. The man dug in the moment the dish made contact with table, and Loki wanted to record his pleased hums as he ate it for posterity.

Romanov huffed, amused, when she came in and saw her partner happily eating away.

"I would hurry if I were you, Mistress, for Master Barton seems hungry enough to eat your share without consideration," he commented, and the woman's face turned serious. Maybe he shouldn't have spoken so familiarly...

And then, wonder of wonders, her eyes crinkled at the corners. She said nothing, instead sitting down in front of Barton and slapping his hand away when he made a move for her food in jest, not having finished his own.

Loki watched them, envying their camaraderie, for a moment, before hearing the elevator doors open. He turned towards them and saw Stark staggering in, completely drunk—

_Don't allow harm to come to us._

—and raced to his side to keep him from falling face-first into the glass top of the coffee table.

Stark slapped his hands off him, turning his face away from Loki, and walked drunkenly to a seat by the table. "Helloooo," he slurred, "welcome back, I guess." He grabbed a piece of bread and took a huge, sloppy bite out of it. "Aw, fuuuuuck!" he moaned, his mouth still stuffed, "what the hell do you put in this Loki, heroin? This is ah-may-zing!" He chewed a bit and then swallowed.

"Stark, are you alright?" Romanov asked, sounding like she was only asking because it was expected of her, and continued eating.

The man shrugged with his whole body, before draping over the table. "Clint, Cliiiiint!" he called to the man in front of him, slapping the table with an outstretched hand.

"What is it?" Barton seemed put out, and Loki noticed he was done with his serving, so he took the plate from him and hurried to the kitchen to serve him more.

He didn't hear Stark's answer, but when he came back with Barton's second helping and Stark's first, all three mortals were staring at him, Stark looking miserable.

Loki looked behind himself to check that they had been actually looking at something else and he was standing in the way. They hadn't. Unnerved, he placed the plated in the respective places and backed away. He heard the scratch of a chair being pulled back and turned to see Romanov standing up after him.

He racked his brains, trying to figure out what he had done wrong, but he couldn't think of anything, not even when Romanov grabbed one of his wrists and tugged him into the kitchen, closing the door behind them.

"What is it, Mistress?" he asked nervously, looking around for exits now that they had blocked to obvious one. There was a window, but it didn't open and the glass was very resistant. He could probable break it with magic and jump out.

But Romanov looked serious, not murderous. "Tony says he's been raping you these last few days."

Loki blinked several times. "What?"

Romanov repeated her not-question, looking at Loki more urgently, her hand on his arm more gentle now, not gripping any longer.

Loki shook his head. "No, he has not. I admit we have been having sexual congress," he said evenly, but his cheeks flushed, "but he has not forced me or taken me against my will." He was extremely uncomfortable at sharing this with her.

Romanov frowned. "He seems to think he ordered you into his bed."

Loki shook his head vehemently. "Not at all, I invited myself to it," he corrected honestly.

And then he felt like kicking himself. What was he doing? Stark had handed him the perfect opportunity to tear apart his little team of foolhardy do-gooders in a single strike. He only needed to lie and perform, which was what he did best, and tell her, sobbing, how horrible it had been to be made to spread his legs or else suffer from forfeiting a promise, how much it had hurt, how not even him deserved what Stark had done to him.

Instead, he was defending the mortal against the people who had the power to take him out Loki's hair for good?

But Romanov was speaking again, and he caught only the tail end of her question. "...say no?"

Loki shook his head to clear it—his bed was made now, so to speak, time to lay in it—and asked her to repeat the question.

"Were you, at any time, unable to say 'no'? And answer honestly."

Loki ran his encounters with Stark through his mind, trying to identify a time when—

_Allow me to fuck you like no one else has before._

—Stark had forbidden him from telling him to stop.

Oh.

"Yes," he replied, eyes focusing on the woman, and added hurriedly, "but I wouldn't have said no, regardless! I wanted it, wanted everything he did to me!"

And so what if it had felt horrible and disgusting, that first time? So what if he had felt so unclean even after showering twice he had wanted to set himself on fire, to see if _that_ could cleanse him? He had known what it would be like, having gone through much the same thing many times before, and he had chosen it all the same. And since the second time, he had been ready and had actually enjoyed himself.

Romanov closed her eyes and grimaced. "It doesn't matter. Whether you liked it or not, whether you sought him out or not, you were not in a position to give consent."

Loki shook his head. "If I had not wanted him to do it, would not have returned to him all those times." He grabbed her shoulder and shook her, forcing her to look him in the eye. "I had ways of stopping him that do not involve harming him."

She arched an eyebrow, sceptical. "Like what?"

"I could have rendered him unable to maintain an erection, or make him ejaculate early." He shook his head, this time more amused than anything. "Orgasms makes him fall asleep within minutes," he grinned, "unless I keep him awake. He really possesses no stamina."

"I heard that!" came Stark's muffled shout from the other side of the door, followed by Barton's "Shut up!" and the sound of a slap.

Romanov closed her eyes and let out a chuckle. "I see," she said at length, opening her eyes. "No cause for alarm, then?"

Loki shook his head, amazed at the change in her stance about him. Before that day, before that moment, even, she had regarded him as some kind of plague-ridden scoundrel. Now... Well, he wouldn't go as far as to say she liked him, but he seemed to have won her over slightly.

Barton was halfway there, and Stark was sleeping with him already. Two more left, and he would soon have them eating out of the palm of his hand.

"Shall we return so you can finish your meal, then, Mistress?" he asked her, and she nodded.

They found Banner supporting a swaying Stark right by the door when they opened it, and Loki leaned forward to relieve Barton of his burden. "Shall I put him to bed now, so you can enjoy your dinner, Master?"

Barton stared at him, then licked his lips and handed Stark over. It showed a measure of trust, leaving his practically impotent team-mate with someone who could harm him or kill him with a snap of his fingers. Loki knew the mortal had forgotten, as mortals were prone to do, his orders not to harm them or allow harm to come to them, so the gesture meant even more.

Stark clung to him, drunkenly nuzzling his neck, and Loki picked him up easily and settled him on his hip, like a parent carrying a young child. Barton snorted at the sight before returning to his seat and digging into his food with relish, and Romanov joined him.

Loki carried Stark to the elevator, then set him down on his feet because he kept insisting he could walk. Jarvis took them to Stark's floor, and the man almost fell flat on his face trying to walk out by himself, but Loki caught him and helped him to the floor gently.

"Stop the world, I wanna get off," Stark deadpanned, lying flat on his back on the polished stone of his foyer.

Loki sat down, cross legged, behind his head, and gathered it onto his lap, softly combing Stark's hair with his fingers. "I cannot do that, Master, for it contradicts Barton's orders not to harm you."

Stark pouted, eyes focusing on Loki's face above him. "Can you at least make it so I don't have a hangover tomorrow?"

It had been a question, not an order, and that gave Loki pause. "I can, yes, although I am not too sure I should. After all, you brought it upon yourself." He massaged Stark's temples softly with the pads of his fingers regardless.

"Ah, cut me some slack," Stark complained, closing his eyes into the touch. "When I realised you couldn't help but obey orders, I... I'm sorry," he whispered.

Loki's chest felt warm, and he started stroking Stark's cheeks and forehead too. "You did not force me, if that was what you thought."

Stark yawned, and his breath smelled like a tavern. "I know, overheard you talking to Nat," he murmured sleepily and shivered slightly. "You really would have cursed me with performance issues, huh?"

"I could have, yes," Loki grinned. "Are you cold, Master? Would you like me to put you to bed?"

The man smiled goofily, his reactions completely outside his control, now that he was intoxicated on both drink and touch. "Yeah, but only if you stay."

Oh, Loki could certainly do that. "If you insist, Master." He fashioned another doppelganger and indicated the elevator with his head, sending down to complete the chores of picking up the table and washing the dishes.

It nodded and vanished into thin air, and Loki knew it would appear in the kitchen.

He helped Stark sit up slowly, then gathered him into a princess carry, holding him close to his chest. Stark panicked and curled an arm around Loki's neck, clutching at his clothing. "I am not about to drop you, Master," Loki laughed into his ear, and Stark buried his face in the crook of Loki's neck and mouthed along his skin.

Loki almost stumbled, surprised, before smiling briefly and taking Stark to his bed in the darkness, setting him down sitting on the edge after turning down the covers with magic. He knelt for his master, reliving him of shoes and then of his jeans and button-up shirt, leaving him in only his underwear, and then Stark laid down on his own, head completely missing the pillow.

Stripping as well to his newly-bought underwear, Loki got in between the covers on his side of the bed, stretching out on his back. The mortal was on him immediately, curling against his side, head resting on Loki's chest and hand flat on Loki's stomach. He rubbed in circles and murmured something unintelligible, finally settling with a deep breath.

Loki watched him and kissed the top of his head in impulse, sending a curl of magic into Stark to relieve him of the alcohol in his system. It wouldn't eliminate everything, but it would certainly help. Tired, he made a come-hither motion with his index finger and the cotton sheet and a blanket travelled up their bodies.

Then, surrounded in softness and warmth, and lulled by Stark's steady breathing, he allowed himself to drift off to sleep.

* * *

The next morning, Loki woke early, like usual, because the sun was streaming in through the strangely untinted windows. When he moved to get out of the bed, Stark murmured weakly for him to "turn off the sun", raising a hand to his head and clutching it.

Loki allowed another trickle of healing magic to enter his body, this time to help with the after-effects of alcohol, and slowly disentangled himself, replacing his body with the pillow he had been using these last few days when Stark stirred. It seemed to appease the man for the moment, so he asked Jarvis to tint the glass of the windows pitch black and went to the bathroom.

He relieved himself and stepped into the shower, turning the water on. He shivered in the sudden cold and started soaping himself up quickly.

It seemed he wasn't stealthy enough, however, for it hadn't been a minute before Stark walked into the bathroom rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. At first Loki thought he would just sit on the toilet and watch him shower, like he had on previous occasions, but it seemed Stark had other ideas.

Before Loki could warn him, he opened the glass door and stepped inside.

"F-fuck! This is f-fucking c-cold!" Stark yelped, shivering despite himself, and reached around Loki to turn the tap to the hot setting.

The stream cut off and resumed again as the system changed pipes, and it was the only warning Loki got.

He couldn't get away fast enough, and a stream of heavenly hot water hit his arm as he was rushing out of the stall. The headache startled him, causing him to slip on the wet floor, and he fell sideways, clutching his head.

He breathed slowly a few times, waiting for the pain of both the broken geas and the fall to lessen, before opening his eyes and pushing himself off the floor. His hand, still soapy with shampoo, slid uselessly and he fell again, his time opening the skin of his jaw on the hard floor.

"Shit. You okay?" Stark asked hesitantly, peering at him from around the shower door, which was starting to fog up. "You're kinda bleeding there."

"Yes, _Master_ , I am just fine," Loki answered sarcastically, forgetting himself—

_Tell me the truth._

—and then felt a new headache come on. "Okay! Okay, no, that hurt," he corrected, eyes wide, holding one hand to his forehead and rubbing soothingly.

Stark turned off the shower and walked out, careful to do so on the mat made exactly for that purpose, and crouched next to Loki. "So, what is it exactly? Are you, like, allergic to hot water or something?"

"No, Master. I get headaches when I disobey an order," Loki explained, momentarily elevating the temperature of his skin to make the water evaporate, and sat up, examining the side of his body he had landed on. Nothing broken, luckily, but it would leave a big bruise. He healed the small cut on his face.

But Stark wasn't paying attention his bruises. "What do you mean, _disobey an order_?" he scowled.

Loki shrugged. "Exactly what I meant, Master. I was ordered not to use hot water." Like had been ordered not to eat, or sit on furniture. Yes, he was still angry about that.

Stark's eyes widened and then he rubbed a hand over his face. "Aw, fuck. It's too early to deal with this. I only wanted some hot shower sex."

"Not interested." Loki grabbed the clothes he had brought into the shower and singled out his briefs, putting them on—he would dress fully later, in the bedroom—and padded out of the bathroom.

Stark followed him, clad only in a towel he had grabbed in passing. "Hey! Hey, stop right there!"

Loki froze, not daring to move either forward or backward, or indeed even turn around. "What is it, Master?" he asked tiredly, making sure Stark knew from his tone of voice exactly how unhappy Loki was about the whole ordeal.

Circling him to stand in front of him, Stark regarded him with his head tilted a bit to the side. "You are mocking me," he said at length. "Are you mocking me? I can't tell. Jarvis, is he mocking me?"

"No, Sir," Jarvis answered, and the way he spoke indicated that he would have been rolling his eyes if he had had any. "He did exactly as you ordered: stopped."

Loki could practically hear him thinking. Stark's eyes widened and he paled dramatically. "Shit, I just ordered you around," he said, looking disgusted, and shook his head. "Sorry, you can move now."

"Why, thank you, Master, you are so gracious," Loki teased him, hiding how touched he felt, and continued on his path to Stark's bedroom.

"So, uh, who ordered you not to use hot water? So I can slap them and call them names?" the man asked, sitting on the bed to watch Loki dress.

"Barton," Loki answered, muffled by his t-shirt as he slid it on.

Stark stood up in a flash. "I'm gonna kill him."

Rolling his eyes, Loki pushed him back down onto the bed. "No you won't. Because then you would have to kill Romanov too, and Rogers, and yourself, now that I think about it."

Stark's mouth dropped open in indignation. "What did _I_ do?"

Loki arched an eyebrow at him. "You forbade me from using furniture, about," he hesitated, remembering, "two weeks into my punishment, I think? I've been sleeping on the floor ever since, and it was starting to get cold."

Stark stood up again, looking stricken. "I did _what?_ When? How?"

Loki searched Stark's face, but he saw no trace of deception. ' _I knew it. He didn't do it on purpose. Humans are just casually cruel like that._ ' "I believe your exact words were 'keep your filthy paws off my furniture unless it's to clean it,' though you were quite intoxicated at the time, so you may not remember." He allowed that time to sink in. "But I do."

"But, but, I didn't mean that!" Stark defended himself. "I didn't. I remember now, I had come home with a chick, and you were there, like, lying in wait, hoping to cockblock me."

Raising both eyebrows in a believe-what-you-want way, Loki answered. "I must hold to _every order_ I receive from the five of you, remember? The geas I'm under does not care to make distinctions upon intent or seriousness of the order, just that it gets fulfilled. And I was sleeping there, until you interrupted me. You could have just come here, to your room, to fuck, you know?"

Stark was speechless for a heartbeat (a true feat, that) before his eyes widened in outrage. "And what were you doing there in the first place?!" he yelled, raising his voice as he went. "In fact, puzzle me this, 'cause I'm stumped: why do you even sleep in the kitchen in that stupid thing Cap got you when you have your own room?!"

"Because Rogers—Master Rogers," he amended before the headache could even start, "ordered me to! I know you heard him, you were there!" And then his mind caught up with what Stark had just said. "Wait—I have a room?" he asked in a much quieter voice.

"What—of course you have a room, the one for guests on Thor's floor." Stark was also much quieter not. "I—I thought someone would tell you."

Loki regarded him sardonically. "I suppose that everyone assumed someone else would tell me," he said dryly. "It's just like you humans to be so conveniently forgetful. I bet you forgot I have to eat, too?"

Stark stared at him dumbly. "...What?"

"Mistress Romanov forbade me from eating 'good food'," Loki answered and bit his lip, allowing his pain to show, "so I've been eating your scraps and vermin I hunt in alleyways. You've seen me do it." Stark was silent. "Or did you think rat is a delicacy in Asgard?"

"How would I know? I thought it was another of your weird drama-queen ideas about slavery, like..." he trailed off and visibly deflated."

"Like?"

"Like that bit about sleeping on the floor." He buried his face in his hands. "And the thing with the hot water was Barton." The mortal's voice was very small, and Loki had to strain to hear it.

"Indeed. I turned it on while he was showering." Loki shrugged, uncomfortable with laying all his secrets bare and with Stark allowing his feelings to show this much as well. "He's also the reason I never dodge or fight back when any of you chooses to strike me."

Stark clenched his eyes shut and his jaw, and his hands turned into fists in his hair.

Oh, no. An angry Stark was never fun to deal with.

"Get out."

' _What? Again?_ ' But orders were orders, no matter how much he hated it. "Right. _Master_." Loki got his trousers on but didn't do the button or zip them up in the interest of saving time. He grabbed his shoes, stole one last glance at Stark despite the headache it caused and left.

Loki found his clone awake and curled up in the dog bed in the kitchen. Sighing, he rested a hand on his shoulder comfortingly and let him vanish, gaining his memories in the process.

Romanov and Barton had eaten their dinner and gone to their rooms afterwards to lick their wounds. Loki had been left to clear the table and do the dishes. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He decided to check his room, finally having discovered it existed after all. The trip to Thor's floor was uneventful, especially because Thor was not there as per Odin's orders so as not to interfere with Loki's punishment. Thor's floor was nice, if a bit bland. The quarters of every other Avenger were all personalised and littered with memorabilia, very lived in. In comparison, this felt empty.

Loki found his own room easily enough. A bed big enough for three, and curiously long enough for Loki's tall frame, laid—dressed in a leaf-green bedcover but unmade underneath—by a wall, facing a flat-screen television. On the walls on each side were floor-to-ceiling windows, free of curtains—Loki guessed the glass could be tinted to black, like in Stark's rooms—and a closet respectively.

He walked to the closet, not quite knowing what to expect, and hesitated briefly before opening it. He found lots of clothes, more than he could ever need, objectively, hanging from a rail and folded in the drawers. Jeans, t-shirts, underwear, socks... Dress trousers and dress shirts, and a few waistcoats, dress shoes, and then running shoes next to those, and Converse sneakers, and more and more shoes. There were jackets, too, nice and thick, and light, and formal, and jumpers and cardigans and scarves...

A full wardrobe. Here he had been wearing the same clothes for months, wallowing in the perceived neglect, when the humans _had,_ after all, readied a place for him, prepared for his arrival by ensuring he would be well dressed.

He reached out a hand to ghost it over the clothes, not quite believing they weren't an illusion, and the softness of the fabric surprised him. It was all very fine quality, way above the scratchy fabric of the second-hand clothes he had bought with stolen money.

Pulling out a pair of corduroy trousers and putting them next to his legs, he saw they were also in his size, which, considering how tall he was, meant that they had been custom made.

Oh.

He blinked away the tears that had gathered in his eyes, blurring his vision, and sat down cross-legged on the floor. A comfortable bed, soft, fitting clothes, his own TV, his own _room_ , where he could lock himself in and hide from everything for a while.

This, all this, would have been his if only he had swallowed his pride long enough to ask for it.

He had been so, _so_ stupid.

Finding himself in complete privacy for the first time in years, he wept.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, hiding from the world like a child, before Jarvis told him he was wanted upstairs.

Loki stood and put the corduroy trousers away with one last lingering touch, thinking ' _This is mine,_ ' and walked briskly to the elevator. He saw himself in the mirror—his red eyes, his puffy eyelids—and composed himself as best he could in the time it took to travel up five floors. He was sure Jarvis made the elevator go extra slow to give him more time, and he was thankful.

He didn't quite know what to expect when the doors open, but Stark pulling his stash of dead vermin out of the freezer and into the rubbish bin while Barton watching, face green, wasn't it.

"...What?" he asked, and ran towards them. "Stop! Stop, please!" he begged, forgetting himself, snatching a de-feathered and frozen pigeon from Stark's hand and trying to get the rubbish bin too, though the mortal had seen him coming and pulled it away before he could reach it.

Barton and Stark were staring at him, not saying anything.

Loki lowered in gaze to the cold bird in his hand and took a deep breath. "I apologise for keeping them in the same place as your food, but please, Master Barton, Master Stark," he licked his lips, "I beg you not to take them away."

There, he had said it. He had pleaded and begged for something, like they had probably been waiting for. Would they give in to his requests? Or would they take pleasure in denying him and showing him his place?

"Oh, Loki," Stark said, and hung his head. "Give it here," he ordered, extending his hand for it.

Loki had no choice, and he shoved the dead pigeon into Stark's hands, glaring venomously at him. The man looked away as he trashed it. Loki glared at Barton too, but he also avoided his gaze.

"I see," he spat. "My most _sincere_ apologies, _Master,_ I did not understand that I was not to eat at all." He bit his tongue bitterly, and pushed his shame and disappointment down, instead raising his head regally—like he had done all his life when confronted by the sheer distaste and lack of respect other people felt for him—and making his face carefully blank.

Neither of the mortals said a thing.

"You will probably have to make than an order, then, Master," Loki continued, this time in a perfectly nonchalant and polite tone of voice. "Otherwise I may find myself sneaking out into alleys at night and sucking off busboys in exchange for boxes of scraps."

' _Tell me the truth,_ ' Stark had ordered, unthinkingly. Loki could use truth as a weapon, too.

Stark flinched. So he _had_ known about it, after all. Loki had wondered.

Oh, but there was one more _mortal_ in the room to whom he owed some _truth_ as well.

He turned to regard Barton, smiling almost pleasantly. "Or is it that you were jealous I went to _beg for scraps_ to someone else, Master Barton?" he asked lightly, and his smile turned nasty. "Shall I get on my knees and pleasure _you_ to earn the right to a meal, like I allow Stark use of my body in exchange for use of his bed?"

But it wasn't any of them who answered.

"Enough, Loki!"

It was Romanov, leaning on a pillar behind him, out of sight. Arms crossed over her chest, she frowned like she had heard the whole exchange, but Loki hadn't seen her when he'd come in.

He dipped his head in acknowledgement of defeat. Three against one – he didn't think he would get out of this one on top. He could only thank his lucky stars Banner and Rogers weren't there; he didn't think he could deal with Rogers' pitying doe-like eyes, or Banner's quiet disapproval.

"Apologies," he said quietly, head down. "You have made your point. I will not eat—"

"She said _enough_ , Loki!" Barton yelled, interrupting him, sounding distraught.

Loki raised his head to look at him and saw him focused on Romanov, seeming worried. Confused, Loki turned around to watch her, and this time he saw the way her fingers were digging into her flesh, how her shoulders shook with every intake of breath, how her lips were quivering and how her cheeks gleamed as if wet.

And then he understood— _Oh. It was her order. And she feels terrible._

He grinned, trying not to look too gleeful. "Very well. Shall I cook you breakfast now, Masters, Mistress? Or would you like me to tend to your beds first?" He had a list of chores that needed to be done when one of the mortals returned from a trip, and considering Banner would be returning later in the day, it would be smart to start now so it wouldn't pile up.

"Loki, for all that is good in the world, would you please stop for a second?" Stark whined, getting up from his crouch by the freezer. "Look," he started, and then rubbed a hand down his face, "we're trying to apologise here."

"As you well should," Loki answered pleasantly, "considering you have broken every single promise you made to Thor." All three of them flinched at that, and Loki was delighted. "Really, even hunting mutts in Asgard have it better than me here; they, at least, are rewarded a part of the kill for their efforts to please their masters."

Stark looked like he was about to speak, but Loki interrupted him by lifting his hand, palm facing forward.

"You did not let me finish." Stark nodded for him to continue. "As I was saying, I suppose I can accept your apology, Master," he said, inclining his head graciously, "provided you take away all the inhumane restrictions you have me under."

Stark rolled his eyes at that. "Yeah, yeah, live it up, asshole," he said, but he was grinning. "You are never going to let us live it down, are you?"

Loki considered it. "If you forget the things I have done to survive these last months."

Barton shook his head. "No deal." He looked pained. "Even when I was under your absolute control, you weren't the kind monster we've been to you."

' _He means it_ ,' Loki thought, warmed. "It is quite alright, Master. Some people are better suited to power than others." He shrugged. He wasn't well suited either—it went to his head easily—but he wouldn't be telling them that just yet.

"Loki," Romanov said, voice steady once again. "You deserve a lot of things for what you've done, but not..." she trailed off, looking through him, lost in thought, "...this. I take it back. You are allowed to eat what you want."

"And to use furniture again, sorry about that."

"And hot water." The other two looked at Barton expectantly, and he rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "And to dodge if any of us tries to hit you, but I'm not taking back the part where you can't harm us."

Loki grinned dangerously. "I would not, either, in your place, Master."

Stark elbowed Barton in the stomach. "Right, about that... You don't have to call us your masters anymore."

Loki's eyes widened. He hadn't been expecting that. He felt unexpectedly touched. "Thank you," he said honestly, not knowing that else to say.

The four of them stared at each other for a moment, sharing an awkward silence.

"Well," Stark broke it, "how about you cook us some breakfast, then? And by 'us' I mean you as well, Iron Chef."

Loki grinned, feeling extremely light-hearted. "Then please take your seats," he said, sounding like a TV game presentator, "and welcome to Chez Loki."

He turned the stove on and got to work.

* * *

If he had thought sharing a breakfast with his masters was surreal, he found out it was nothing compared to the rest of the day, with the humans walking on eggshells around him ever time they caught him eating something or sitting on the sofa. It was like they wanted to apologise again but didn't quite know how to, and Loki started avoiding them just to spare himself the awkwardness.

He took his time standing in a shower of scalding hot water just because he could, though his skin was red and puffy by the end of it and then slipping, naked, into his— _his!—_ bed, luxuriating in the soft, soft sheets that soothed his irritated skin, and napped until lunch time.

By the time he served the food on the four—check it, _four_ —places, he was in an incredibly good mood, and willing to share it with anyone he came across.

Sure, he was still under a geas, and sure, he was still going to do anything the mortals told him to, but after what had happened earlier that day, he trusted them to take care of him right back. Stars and stones, Romanov had _cried_ over her treatment of him – Romanov, who never even got upset, no matter what happened, who played her own body like an instrument to garner the reactions she wanted from anyone else.

No. She hadn't been faking, of that he was sure.

She was the first to arrive at the dining room, and he greeted her politely. "Would you like anything to drink, Mistress?" he asked, tacking the title on due to habit.

She flinched. "Don't call me that, Loki. And I feel like a beer right now."

He got it for her, finding her sitting in her usual spot at the table, and handed it over. "I know not what else to call you," he confessed, taking a seat as well.

She shrugged. "Agent. Romanov. Natasha. Whatever you want." She opened the bottle with her fork with practised ease and took a sip. "I don't care. Also, this beer is warm." She drank anyway.

Loki curled a hand around the bottle when she put it down, cooling it down. "Try it now, Romanov."

She did, and her eyes flew to him in surprise. "Handy. Remind me to keep you around in summer."

He grinned, and looked away. They shared an oddly comfortable silence, before Loki got the urge to confess something. He waited until she was drinking again, before speaking, though. "You know, the cashier did warn me about leaving the tampons behind, that day."

Romanov choked and beer came out of her nose, which she wiped with her sleeve. She chuckled. "So you are saying that you basically brought it upon yourself, then."

He smiled sadly. "I usually do. There is no need to feel guilty."

She looked away from him. "I don't," she lied.

Loki pretended to believe her.

Then Barton arrived and informed them that Stark was in the workshop, again, and has said not to bother him. Loki arched an eyebrow, as if saying ' _how about that?'_ and excused himself, getting a tray and putting two dishes there.

Romanov nodded at him as he passed her to get to the lift, as though giving him her blessing.

Jarvis opened the door to the workshop for him when he arrived, and he cleared his throat to get Stark's attention.

The man looked up at him, startled, and then groaned. "What good is avoiding you if you come looking for me?" But for all his complaints, he looked relieved to see Loki there, and put down his tools and gloves, sitting where Loki had put the tray down.

Loki put his plate in front of him and handed him the knife and fork, which the man took wordlessly, and waited until he started eating before standing behind him, resting his hands on Stark's shoulders.

Suddenly tense, Stark froze. "You are going to kill me now, aren't you?"

Loki laughed. "Of course not." He felt the shoulders under his hands relax and stroked them almost affectionately. "You know I'm not allowed to, Master," he purred, greatly amused when he felt Stark tense again.

"I'd prefer if you didn't call me that, you know," he said at last, moving the fork the last few centimetres to his mouth and eating the morsel there, before tilting his head back against Loki's stomach and looking up at him.

Smiling teasingly, Loki caught his eyes and stared back. "I thought I could call you whatever I wanted, Master?" he said, voice dripping seduction, his hands moving down Stark's chest. "Or does it make you _uncomfortable_?"

Swallowing hard, Stark blinked at him for a moment. He sat up and turned in his seat to look at Loki suspiciously. "Hang on. I thought you only _allowed me use of your body_ to get access to my bed?"

Loki circled the table and sat down, grabbing his own plate and cutlery. "I did, at first," he shrugged, cutting into the chicken breast. "And now that I have my own bed, I find that yours is more comfortable."

Stark grinned. "Probably because mine has me in it. We're kinda a combo like that, you see?" He resumed eating.

"I see, that must be the reason," Loki played along and took the piece of chicken into his mouth. He closed his eyes and moaned in honest pleasure.

"Yeah, incredibly good, I know," Stark said, still grinning. "Don't know if you knew this, but I have the best cook in the world working here in my building. You should meet him, you have a lot in common." He took another bite.

Loki kicked him under the table, smiling faintly into his food. "Thank you, Stark," he said after he swallowed, and then looked away and hid his face behind his glass, pretending to take a sip of water.

Stark kicked him back. "Look at you, all mushy," he smiled affectionately. "You're like an egg, you know?"

"How so?"

"All hard shell on the outside, but crack that and you are all soft and gooey inside," he laughed, and avoided the bit of bread crust Loki tossed at him. "You're welcome, by the way."

* * *

Almost four months now.

Loki sat in the balcony, curled up in his warmest jumper with a thermos of sweet tea. He had a go board he had carved himself next to him and was in the middle of a match with Jarvis. It was Jarvis' turn now, so Loki found himself surveying New York from his vantage point on the tallest building, shielding his eyes against the slanted sunlight while he waited.

The city was quite awe-inspiring once one got to know it better. In the sunset, the city glowed golden, the spires reaching up to welcome the sky. The sharp colours created a strong contrast; the bits that the light didn't grace were plunged into darkness, completely overshadowed by the blazing glory of the parts that were.

The city was so beautiful, so bright, if only one didn't know of the mud and dirt that sullied its base. The people that rolled around in the filth, the criminals and liars and cheaters that stepped over each other, trying to reach the light. All the poverty and neglect that hid between the sparkles and the brilliance...

And then, he knew that sometimes flowers bloomed in the most inhospitable of places. That living in filth and in darkness wasn't what made souls filthy and dark; no, instead, sometimes hardship was the forge, and though these people never became pretty diamonds, they were at least worthy of beholding.

He thought of the cashier at the supermarket, and the musician, and the woman and child from the thrift store. He thought of Timmy and the people that yelled because they wanted to be served first, without delay, and be treated like princes when they were all paupers.

Loki had read their mythologies, and they all said gods created humans in their own images, from mud or ash, it didn't matter. But Loki knew gods. They weren't as petty as humans, as driven, as nasty when crossed or as compassionate when moved, as vengeful, as flighty, as capable of great cowardice and great bravery, of great love and greater hate, of building, of betraying...

No, humans were more like Loki. And that was exactly why Loki was the most qualified to rule them.

"15-13. Loki, it's your turn," Jarvis' tranquil voice pulled him from his musings.

Loki shook his head to clear it. "Yes, of course." He reached into the pot of Jarvis' stones and drew one wobblily, still unused to the unfamiliar pieces, placed in where his friend had indicated.

His hand started glowing, and he didn't know if it was because of the way the sunlight hit him or anything else, until it spread like wildfire over his skin. He suddenly felt weightless, like he had been tied down and the shackles were now being cut.

_Oh._

The geas was gone.

The geas was gone just when he had found a home, a place where he fit seamlessly, with people he could learn to care for and who cared for him right back, he was free to go as he pleased. There was nothing holding him there anymore, besides his desire to stay.

There was also nothing making him leave. He could stay and pretend he was still naught but a slave. The Avengers would never find out. He could keep the home he had found.

Looking confident but feeling quite the opposite, Loki made his move, and turned his gaze back towards the city.

 

****

**Author's Note:**

> Contains: humilliation, starvation, sleep deprivation, overall neglect, physical punishment, dubious consent, loki eating vermin like it's spain 1948 and whoring himself out for food, instead of you know ASKING for it, because he's in love with being a martyr. 
> 
> Probably more things I'm forgetting to tag here. Will add more as i remember.


End file.
